


Song of Myself

by KnightVanguard, timeandspaces, Woolfsbane



Category: Frankenstein & Related Fandoms, Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Body Horror, Comfort/Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gay Sex, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-03-06 02:03:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 61
Words: 379,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18841387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightVanguard/pseuds/KnightVanguard, https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeandspaces/pseuds/timeandspaces, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woolfsbane/pseuds/Woolfsbane
Summary: The year is 2006. University of Chicago has never seen a student quite like Victor Frankenstein. He’s the most impressive medical student they’ve had, though he’s constantly on probation for failing his basic assignments. What they don’t realize is that his project, the reanimation of the dead, has finally worked. What he doesn’t realize is that there are consequences to his actions, and that his life is about to get much, much more complicated.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome. Each chapter is written in three sections, for three points of view. Henry Clerval is written by KnightVanguard, Victor Frankenstein is written by timeandspaces, and The Creation is written by me, Woolfsbane.
> 
> Please be aware that this is done out of love for the original story, and Mary Shelley would probably be proud of us. Also, be aware that the tags for this work are accurate, and when we say medical trauma we mean it. There will be graphic depictions of body horror regarding the creation. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for homophobic slurs, gore, sex, etc. will appear at the head of each chapter.
> 
> We update on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry hates formaldehyde. Victor Frankenstein (re)creates life. The Creation draws its first breath. Everyone has a really, really bad night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the beginning of our project! As promised, here are the chapter-specific warnings: Medical trauma and body horror.  
> A reminder: Henry's POV is written by KnightVanguard, Victor's POV is by timeandspaces, and The Creation's POV is by Woolfsbane

         Henry Clerval left the apartment for about five fucking minutes and he already managed to lose Victor Frankenstein. Typical, as soon as he gets to see the light of day, he runs away to his lab. Henry leaned against a barren tree and watched the entrance of the lab building. Every person who left looked like a depraved mix of caffeine, stress, and very little human. It was entirely possible that Victor would come out in a few moments and he just needed to grab some papers or something, but it then again, probably not.

        Henry pushed open the door and made his way to lab G03 and stopped in the middle of the hallway when he smelt death. “Victor, what are you doing?” he asked through his hands.

        “Absolutely nothing,” he yelled down the hall. Having wrapped his scarf around his nose and mouth, Henry approached the door.

        “A bit...much for frog biology,” he said, still outside the door. Victor opened it a crack.

        “Come back later, I’m busy.”

        “Three minutes ago, we were going to go...I don’t know...get lunch. How can you already be busy?”

        “I...um...I changed my mind. Go away,” Victor tried to close the door but Henry stuck his foot in the way.

        “I haven’t seen you in days. I-” Henry stopped.

        “You?”

        “I just haven’t seen you, okay? Let me into your goddamned frog lab.”

        Henry feebly elbowed his way into the room. It wasn’t much, just a few cabinets and shelves and a few tables covered in dismembered body parts. Victor put down a vial filled with a mysterious fluid and paced nervously across the room.

        “Is that… a limb?” Henry squeaked.

        “Uh. no,” Victor stepped in front of a leg which was clearly held open with pins and needles.

        “No no no no no, that is definitely a limb. Oh god; I think it’s a human limb. Oh my god, Victor. Oh my god,” Henry took his glasses off his face and tried to wipe them clean about seven times before deciding that it wouldn’t help.

        “It might be a limb,” Victor conceded.

        “Where did you get a limb?” Henry’s voice continued to rise. “You can’t just get human limbs.”

        “You can if you work in the cadaver lab,” Victor set to work cleaning some scalpels and a particularly grisly bone saw.

        “You can’t just steal bodies from a cadaver lab,” Henry sat on the ground in the middle of the lab. “He probably had a life and a family. God, Victor, he probably wanted his body to be donated to science and you’ve kidnapped him.”

        “I don’t know, I think this is pretty cool science,” Victor shrugged and compared two human eyes, one brown and one blue. “Which do you think is prettier?”

        “Oh my god, the cadaver lab is going to find their missing bodies and they’re going to find them in your frog lab. We have to hide the bodies. I know a spot in the English building--what?”

        “Which is prettier? I’ve been trying to decide. Blue eyes are striking, but dark eyes have a kinda warmth to them. I don’t know, I can’t decide. Maybe one of each for the ultimate visual punch.”

        Henry looked at the eyes in Victor’s head and then the eyes in his hands. “I’ve always liked dark eyes.”

        “Hmm, interesting. They could work. What about hair?” Victor asked.

        “Hair?” Henry asked, voice shaking, “what type of hair?”

        “Human hair. For a person. A pretty person,” Victor picked up two long clumps of hair and framed them around Henry’s face. “I’ve already decided that it’s going to be long.”

        “Do you like men with long hair?” Henry asked raising a self-conscious hand to his own.

        “Perhaps, but I don’t know about the color,” he huffed and picked up a clump of raven black hair.

        “That would look nice with the eyes. It’s thematically appropriate. I could write poetry about a man like that,” Henry blushed and looked at Victor, his own dark hair sticking to the back of his neck.

        “Oh, another thing,” Victor said as he tossed a folder to Henry, still sitting on the floor. “What do you think of these. Which one’s the prettiest. Are any of them...ideal? Should I try to find a different one? I’ve been agonizing about it for days,” Victor crouched down and looked into Henry’s eyes.

        He flipped through the folder for a second before going completely pale. He closed the folder and then opened it again before slamming it on the floor. “Did you hand me a folder full of...penises?” Henry covered his face with his hands and pressed his forehead to the ground. “Where did they come from? Why do you have them? Victor, who are they?” he wailed.

        “Well-”

        “Oh my god, is one of them you?” Henry picked himself up and leaned into Victor’s gaze.

        “I...no. I think that one is Jeffrey Rainer’s. He worked in accounting for a while before he died in a car crash. I’ve heard it was tragic,” Victor shrugged.

        “Why do you have his dick?”  

        “Well-” Victor started, annoyed. “I did have his dick, but everything is rather delicate you see and it’s awfully hard to preserve that organ in any sort of...functional manner. So that particular one is no longer a candidate,” Victor frowned, “But I do have to say, if that was your first choice, you have very bad taste, my dear friend.”

        Henry took a second look at the photo. Yeah, he would have very bad taste if he chose that one. “Why do you even need me to choose one in the first place? What does it matter if it’s pretty or not? If you want to see a pretty penis, I’m sure you could find many men who would be more than happy to show you themselves.” Henry asked.

        “I just need one that’s dead.”

        Henry’s gaze and expression flatlined. “Please tell me you aren’t going to fuck your science experiment. That’s gotta be against a lot of lab safety protocol.”

        “Come to think of it, I haven’t read anything about that specifically being against the rule in any lab guides,” Victor laughed for the first time in days and Henry felt his heart skip a beat in spite of himself.  

        “You know, I’m just going to leave you alone for a little bit with your...limbs, and I’ll assume if you come back to the apartment intact, you haven’t done anything too horrible. I have some stuff I need to work on. Please bring back milk if you happen to stop by the store. I think we ran out a couple days ago,” Henry said as he picked himself up and wiped some fluid from his cloths.

        “So you, Henry Clerval, are going to leave me, here, alone, with...limbs galore, and ask me to get milk,” Victor scowled.

        “Yup, I have meetings with a few professors. And I need to go. Like, now,” Henry started to open the door. “By the way, I wish we could have gotten lunch together.”

        “Yeah,” said Victor, but he was already too busy stitching together a hand to notice much of anything.  

 

* * *

 

        It was kind of Clerval to visit, but the timing of it was all together...inconvenient. Not that Victor was doing anything necessarily wrong. It was just that Clerval had always tended to be a bit squeamish and unenlightened when it came to the subtle and glorious art of science.

        Milk.

        He shook his head. Such small issues; such minuscule bits of a feeble human life. It was cute on Clerval, he supposed, but only because he was Clerval. On anyone else, well. There was a reason Victor spent most of his time alone.

        (Because of that. Not because nobody wanted to talk to him. Or that nobody else would put up with his talk of historical alchemy and cadaver work and his folder of dick pics, the unlimited undead version. Obviously.

        Obviously.)

        Victor cleared his throat and causally flipped through the folder of penis specimens, looking them over lazily. “Just pick one. It’s not that big a deal.” He scrutinized the penis of a particular Elowen, Raymond.

Maybe. But was it big enough? He’d specifically tried to make the human bigger to ease his working process so he felt like all his parts should reflect that desire. It was just so hard to find aesthetically pleasing, big dicks.

        He groaned and flipped the folder shut, sitting down on the edge of the table heavily. He glanced to the human who, unsurprisingly, did not gaze back, sleeping in his unawakened form. He sighed. “Soon.” He promised, maybe to the human or maybe to himself, as he ran a hand over the newly attached arm.

        Something loud and gurgling interrupted his thoughts and Victor startled violently, losing his grip on the table and slipping to one side. He glanced around the lab panickedly, trying to identify the source. The human? He stared at the body which, unsurprisingly, did not move. Right, he hadn’t...no. No that wasn’t it. Then what-? The groaning sounded again and this time, Victor could place it. His stomach. Right, right, it was lunch. That’s why-

        Aw, fuck, right. Clerval. He’d been rude, hadn’t he? Well, he assumed he’d been rude. It was a bit hard to tell, but Clerval had definitely made the ‘you’re weirding me out, why are you like this, I’m deeply concerned’ face at him. Admittedly, that was a face Victor was quite familiar with at this point, but it was still unpleasant to see on Clerval. He didn’t like upsetting him.

        He yanked out his phone and shot a quick message to the apartment group chat. It was the one Victor referenced most often, specifically dedicated to Justine and Elizabeth yelling at him about upsetting Clerval.

        _ Hey know you’re at work just a heads up I think Clerval is like worried about me or something? Not sure why just tell him I’m fine or something_

Elizabeth's response was almost immediate.

_ What did you do? _

_Nothing_.  Victor paused.  _That I know of._

_ So definitely something then. _

_ You don’t have to sound so sure .  Did he sound off this morning? _

_ Don’t know, I was out of the house early. Gotta get up at the crack of dawn to get those good shots of the city line. _

        Victor groaned. Artists would be the death of him.

_ Well did he sound weird yesterday? I haven’t seen him in a few days. Weeks. Whatever. _

_ I said I don’t know. Did something happen? Did you finally tell him that you want to suck his- _

        Victor locked the phone and set it aside. Nope, not doing that. Corpse time. He looked to his watch and peered to the window. There was supposed to be a thunderstorm tonight, at approximately one, meaning he only had five hours to pick the appropriate eyes and final parts for his creation. He pulled the dick folder back towards him. Time to get to work.

\---

        A massive crack woke Victor from an uneasy slumber. He blinked himself back to awareness hazily as a bolt of lightning flashed across his vision, illuminating the cramped, cluttered closet of a lab the school had given him oddly. Shadows played against the operating table, drawing Victor to his corpse. He felt a small smile widen across his lips. The human had been beautiful in the light of day, yes, Victor had made sure of that, but in the night, he was halfway to ethereal, a glowing thing of finest creation. Victor took in his human’s raven hair, his sharp blue eyes, his toned arms, well defined, but not too veiny, and allowed himself a moment’s worth of unrestrained pride. The finest work he’d ever accomplished, spread out on the table before him, simply begging for him to seep the light of life into his still form. And they’d called him insane and lazy; immature for skipping classes and coursework. Well, who was laughing now? Him!

        Another bolt of lightning struck and Victor rushed to the window, flinging it wide. The pelting rain poured in to spread across the floor like the sheen of a mother’s broken water. Fitting, even if it meant the janitor was going to have his head tomorrow. Whatever, doesn’t matter, what mattered was this. Victor yanked the lightning rod from his desk and draped it out the window. Another crack of thunder. He raced back to the doorway and pressed his back against it, breathing hard.  Not far enough from the rod,  some half buried rational part of his brain reminded him,  you’re going to get struck.  Oh, but he didn’t, couldn’t care. This was his his future! He deserved to see it in full color!

        A beat of silence. And then the world cracked open like a smashed egg.

        For a few moments, Victor knew nothing and nowhere, floating in the space between logic and reality. But slowly he came to a darkened lab. His breathing didn’t sound loud anymore, muffled by a shrieking hum coming from deep within his brain, but his sight was still perfect, if a bit watery. And he saw...he saw…

        “Nothing?” He breathed. It only took a few short strides to carry him across the room to the still human on the bench. The still corpse.

        “C’mon.” The thing did not respond. “C’mon!” Victor yelled. “What the hell? This was- this was supposed to work! I had everything right, I planned-” He cut himself off, turning towards the papers littering his desk, only to find them soaked through and muddled with rain water. “No.” He rushed over and picked up the nearest one, which dissolved in his hands. “No, no, no! What-”

        He yanked a hand through his damped hair. Even without acknowledging it, he could feel acutely the edges of grief begin to invade him. He fought it back with a broom, forcing himself to stand straighter.

        “Coffee. I just-I need coffee and then I’ll-” Victor sent a despairing look towards the very much corpse like corpse on the table. “I’ll figure out what to do.”

        He set his phone on the bench (he could already see the notifications littering it from a quick glance) and shrugged on his coat. The added layers made it far easier to pretend his flight from the lab wasn’t a flee.

 

* * *

 

        The air rushed into its lungs in a sharp pang of agony, riddled with some semblance of desperate relief. It heaved several breaths, feeling the organs of its chest reconfigure to accommodate the fluctuations of breathing. With a shock of horror it felt a pounding in its chest, irregular and unpleasant, and felt a wave of something rush to its head and extremities. The cold set in. And the damp. It felt the urge to move; to turn on its side and curl up for warmth. Was it warm? Its arms felt cold and the torso only barely lukewarm. It moaned, and was scared by the sound of its own voice.

        It became aware that it had senses: It could heard the roll of thunder; feel the damp chill on its skin; smell the stringent scent of something. It opened its eyes. Blurs, at first. But then things. A table, coated in drenched...something. A door in the wall. A window? Basic words came back, but it knew not from where. There was something cold and hard against its back. Metal, perhaps. It wanted to move. Its back hurt; its neck, too. Everything, actually. It felt like each segment of its body had been sewn together after being ripped apart. With every fresh pulse of blood it felt as though its organs might slide out of place. Its breathing quickened. It felt bad, in its head. A pressure, mixed with an overwhelming weight in its chest. It knew this feeling to be fear.

        After several minutes of rallying, it swung its arm and shoulder over itself, turning onto one side. It groaned, and panicked when it saw the ugly seams that lay along each finger, and in turn bound the hand to the wrist. It felt heavy, aching pain in each digit. Having the blood return to unused muscles felt like having each finger crushed with pins and needles.

        Call for help. Some shred of intuition knew something was wrong--this wasn’t its--wasn’t  his  body. He let out a long, low groan as he propped himself up on his other arm. He felt as though the joints would snap out of their sockets. He felt hot tears burn down his face as his tried to get his legs to fall over the edge of the table. They were so much heavier than his arms. Moving the muscles required strength he did not have. Seeing the vicious, unhealed incisions on his body caused him to feel lightheaded. Where was the person who did this to him? Had he been picked up, drugged, and then assaulted? Left for dead by some lunatic butcher who wanted to make him his puppet? He tried to call out, but shut his mouth at the horrible noise.

        He got his feet to touch the ground, and wiggled his toes to make sure they worked. He tested the strength of his calves and thighs; leaning incrementally more of his weight onto them until he was standing. He grabbed onto the surgical cart as he lost his balance, slicing his hand on an uncovered scalpel. He cried out once in shock, not at the pain but rather at the viscous clotted blood that seeped from the wound like molasses. He rubbed his wrist and hand until clean, fresh blood soaked the floor.

        With his makeshift walker he stumbled to the door, grabbing at the doorknob. His hands slid off the smooth metal uselessly, with the blood preventing him from gaining any help from friction. He wiped his hands on his thighs, and tried again, only to find the door was locked. Miserably, he slinked over to the window, closing it inelegantly against the freezing rain. He looked around the lab. There were old coffee cups in the trash, many cabinets of strange bottles and unfamiliar chemicals. There were books, though he had no ability to read them. He found a lab coat and a cushion from a chair, and placed them over his table. Unable to leave, he pulled the coat around himself and tried to sleep.


	2. The Day After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry takes care of Victor. Victor doesn't have sex in his lab. The Creature adjusts to having a body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter are: medical trauma, body horror, mentions of necrophilia.  
> A reminder: Henry's POV is written by KnightVanguard, Victor's POV is by timeandspaces, and The Creation's POV is by Woolfsbane

        Henry was twenty-three years old and was definitely not still afraid of thunderstorms. He lay in his bed with his back turned to the window clutching a sweater, Victor’s sweater, against his chest. He left it in Henry’s room one day and he washed it with his clothes by accident, so it was his now. The rain against the window almost drowned out his inner monologue, but not quite. He heard Victor and his voice and the science as loud as if it were real. Even the very smell of the lab, like death and chemicals, seemed to permeate through his room.

        His phone buzzed every couple of minutes, but he didn’t really care. All he could think about was Victor and the way his eyes twitched and burned. He seemed superhuman, or maybe subhuman, in his lab. Victor the scientist and Victor the man were scarcely the same person. Henry knew Victor the man better than the scientist. The scientist frightened him and asked him to choose a penis based on it’s beauty. The scientist goes hours without eating or drinking, and days without sleeping. Sometimes, he could hardly drag himself back to the apartment.

        Victor the man was kind. Henry has seen it, even if other people could not. He’d seen him take care of his younger siblings and help him and Elizabeth with their art projects. He’d tutored undergrads and edited papers and shared his knowledge with those who asked. Victor the man apologizes when he frightens Henry and he tried to do better; he knows he does. The thing was, Victor the man wasn’t home yet.

        Henry picked up his phone hoping to find a text from Victor, but nothing except 3:48am caught his attention.

 _Are you still out?_ He messaged to Victor and only Victor. He wasn’t quite sure if he was dealing with Victor the scientist or Victor the man. The scientist would not respond, the man definitely would.

        Henry got out of his bed to pace his room, still holding Victor’s sweater. What if he got caught up in the lab? That would make it four days since he’s returned to the apartment- four days without real food and four days without sleep. Who knows what kind of chemicals are floating in the air in the lab. Last Henry checked, Victor wasn’t wearing a mask, or goggles, or anything. Absolutely barbaric. Nothing should be able to harm him.

        Worse yet, what if he got caught up in the storm. There wasn’t much in the way of public transportation at the university at this time of night. He would have to walk home even if it were pouring out. Maybe it was better for him to stay in the lab. But those bodies! It made Henry a little sick to think about. All those people and all those stories, lost to Victor’s work. He’d have to see if he could get some names and dates, and write some letters. He had to do something, but first he had to find Victor.

 _Have you seen Victor?_ He sent to the group chat. He sort of hoped nobody would be awake to read it, but he was wrong.

 _In the lab last I heard_ Elizabeth messaged.

 _Haven’t heard from him much_ said Justine

 _Seemed kinda worried_ Elizabeth finished

 _About?_ Henry asked

 _About worrying you_ Elizabeth responded.

 _I wouldn’t be worried if he came home once in a while_ Henry snapped. He felt his phone buzz but tossed it face down into his bed. This wasn’t helping. It was just making it worse. He stared out the window when a particularly strong stroke of lightning struck a tree in a nearby field. It was poetic for sure, the very poetry of nature. But it scared him and would continue to scare him until Victor was back, safe, in the apartment.

 _Please be safe. I’m worried about you_ He texted Victor. _I miss-_ No, he couldn’t say that. He deleted the message on his screen. _I can come get you_ he said instead.

 _Be back soon_ Victor replied.

 _Do you need help_ Henry asked

 _No. Need to walk._ He said.

        Henry looked outside. The storm showed no signs of letting up. Victor would be soaked to the bone the moment he stepped outside.

_ETA?_

_Late_

_More specific ETA?_

_Late. don’t want to bother you._

        Henry huffed and once again threw his phone on his bed. Why was he like this?

 _I swear to god if you’re more than 15 minutes I will pick you up. It’s fine._ Henry typed.

 _No go to sleep it’s late_ Victor replied.

 _I can’t sleep because I miss you and I’m scared_ Henry hit send. It was far too late for him to be texting.

_I’ll be there in 5_

        Victor was indeed back to the apartment within five minutes and he was, as Henry predicted, soaked to the bone. He could see him shivering, even across the room. Victor sat down, still sopping wet, in a chair. His hair stuck to his skin and stuck up an odd angles. In the light on their living room he could see the dark circles under his eyes and bruises on him knuckles.

        “Victor,” he said softly, “You need to put on some dry clothes.” Victor stared catatonically into the middle distance. “You’ll catch a cold,” Henry chided.

        “I don’t have any clean clothes,” Victor did not move to make eye contact.

        “I have a sweater, could that help?” Henry asked. Victor did not answer. “It’s your sweater so it’ll actually fit,” he added unhelpfully. When he still didn’t get a response, he put a hand on Victor’s shoulder. He flinched as if someone had struck him and turned to look Henry in the eye. He saw tears.

        “It didn’t work,” Victor said. “It’s gone.”

        “I don’t understand. What’s gone?” Henry asked.

        “My notes, the papers. They’re ruined,” Victor locked his eyes to the distance again. “Months worth of materials and research. Gone. It’s gone. Clerval, it’s all gone,” a sob caught in Victor’s throat.

        “It’s just rain, I’m sure we can figure something out.” Henry touched the skin on Victor’s forearm. It was freezing. “We need to get you dry clothes, okay? It’ll help you feel better.”

        “It’s just lost. I’ll never have it again.”

        “Is that okay, Victor? Can I help you get dry clothes?” Henry asked, desperate for something, anything coherent from Victor.

        “Yes,” he said and that was all it took.

        Henry guided Victor to his room and sat him down on his bed. He didn’t really care that his sheets would get wet. They’d dry off eventually. He rummaged through a drawer and got a pair of red plaid pajama pants, the ones that were made of flanel, and a t-shirt. He knew they would basically swallow Victor alive, but they were better that nothing.

        He folded the clothes and presented them to Victor. “Are you going to need help?” he asked. Victor said nothing, so Henry took that as a positive.

        “I’m going to need you to lift your arms,” he said as he readied the dry shirt. Victor complied and Henry peeled the wet garments off his torso. This was so not how Henry thought the first time undressing Victor would go.

        After contorting Victor into his new wardrobe, pants and all, he grabbed a towel and started to gently dry his hair. Henry knew it didn’t really need to be done, but it was a small joy, both for him and, probably, for Victor. By the end of an hour he was dry, soft, and curled up on Henry’s bed, jumping at every lightning strike.

        “You know, I thought I was the only one still afraid of storms,” Henry said absentmindedly from his desk. “I guess it is a normal fear, though.”

        Victor still said nothing, but locked teary eyes with something out the window. Henry couldn’t tell, it was far too late to analyze how or why Victor did anything. But, Victor Frankenstein was in his bed and he did need to sleep and he had no idea what Victor’s plan was.

        “I need to sleep soon, Victor,” he said quietly. “You can stay if you want, but I need to use my bed.”

        Victor nodded and moved to the far side of the bed. Henry crawled next to him and realised that he smelled of his laundry detergent. Even after he turned off the light, he could hear Victor weeping next to him. He wanted so desperately to be able to turn around, hug him, and assure him that everything will be okay, but he wasn’t sure it would help. Victor was a solitary creature, after all.

 

* * *

 

        Victor’s sense of motivation was unusually selective. It had long been both a blessing and an irritation in his life, constantly battling the urge to do only those things which called to his passions. His mother had frequently referred to it as ‘stubbornness,’ but really it was more of a true inability. From laundry he had to struggle to complete to hours spent pouring over theory and biology, completely unknowing of the passing of time, his obsessions or lack thereof made life supremely inconvenient. It was the reason he’d passed through undergrad in such record time, completing a pre-med program in only five semesters, just as it was the reason he had almost failed out of undergrad when he’d completely neglected his humanities requirements. He’d only passed because of Clerval, honestly, and his seemingly endless patience, helping him through homework and practically writing poetry analysis for him on days when he couldn’t be bothered to care, much less act. He never had thanked him for that. He hadn’t thanked him for allowing him to share his bed, either. But that just circled back to the problem at hand. Victor couldn’t muster the energy to care about the things he didn’t want to. And right now, he never wanted to leave Clerval’s bed again.

        “Hey,” Clerval’s voice pierced the uneasy silence of the room unsteadily as Victor resisted the urge to pull the covers over his head. “I, uh,” Clerval sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the shifting weight forcing Victor to adjust himself to re-face the wall, “I brought you donuts? They’re your favorite, the ones with the sprinkles.” Victor said nothing in response. Clerval's words, softly spoken and quiet, seemed to float over his head and past his range of comprehension. They hit the wall beside the bed and stuck there like paint stains, smudged and ugly in their lack of form.

        Victor groaned and turned his head into the pillow.

        “C’mon, Victor.” Clerval tried again. A scattered few words followed of which Victor could only gather worried, sick, and father. The mention of parents sent a shock through his system and he jolted up to face the startled Clerval.

        “No.”

        “No?” Clerval reached a hesitant hand towards his shoulder. “You don’t want a donut?”

        “You can’t call my father.”

        Understanding broke across Clerval’s face quickly followed by unease. The other man shifted fitfully as he moved to sit at the edge of the bed. “Why can’t I call your father? What are you hiding?”

        Victor said nothing, just continued to stare into Clerval’s eyes with as much intensity as he could manage. He’d been told that he could be unnerving when he was in the midst of one of his passionate rants, so he tried to think of nothing but science as he looked into Clerval’s light amber eyes. Then he remembered the failure and his stomach turned.

        “I’m not,” he struggled to form his buttery thoughts into sentences, “I’m not hiding anything, I just-” Victor pulled up a weak smile. “We don’t need to bother him with frog biology, do we?”

        Clerval searched his face, the gears in his head turning, slowly, yes, but still turning. Victor knew the look too well. They were rapidly leaving the familiar realm of Clerval his childhood friend, the one who’d hang on his every word with admirration, the one who once cried for three hours because he’d stepped on a slug, and transitioning into Clerval the poet, the great analyzer and inquisitor. Victor braced himself, aware that he was in no state to counteract the shift.

        “What are you hiding?” Clerval set the donut aside. “The bodies? Or something else?”

        “I’m just worried about my research,” Victor fumbled to push enough truth into his words to be convincing, “I--I’m back to square one! I have nothing! Think of how disappointed he’d be!”

        “He wouldn’t be disappointed and you know it. What are you hiding?” Clerval bore into him. Victor felt his heart skip a beat at the sudden closeness, but barely had time to process it before Clerval gasped. “What kind of horrible things have you done to that corpse?”

        “Nothing!” Victor protested. “It didn’t even work anyways.”

        “Well of course it didn’t work!” Clerval snapped, suddenly angry. “What were you even thinking?”

        “I mean,” Victor felt indignation rise into his lungs, “it should have worked. It could have worked.”

        “No, it wouldn't have. It was a stupid idea. Do you even know how much you could have hurt yourself? You have burn marks on your skin! I mean, what kind of kinks are you even into, electroshock therapy?”

        Victor blinked. “Clerval?”

        “What.” He said sharply.

        “What do you think I was doing in that lab?”

        “Well, I,” Clerval spluttered, “weren’t you like...you know…”

        Victor raised his eyebrows. “You know?”

        “You know,” Clerval dropped his voice to a whisper despite them being the only people in the room (or, indeed, the apartment), “...engaging in...necrophilia activities?”

        Victor stared at him then, unsuccessful in swallowing the bubble of laughter rising out of him, broke into a series of giggles. “I? Clerval, you think I...?” He gasped for breath. “And you just?” Out of the corner of his watery vision, Victor could see Clerval’s face turn a smarter shade of scarlet as he laughed at him. “No, I--I’m not a necrophiliac.” (Not that he hadn’t thought about it, but...his dear, innocent roommate did _not_ need to know about that.)

        “Then what were you doing? What got you so upset that you walked home through the rain and went catatonic?” Clerval said, frustratedly.

        “Nothing as terrible as making a dead sex doll, I assure you. I was simply trying to raise the dead and-”

        “WHAT?”

        “Relax, it didn’t work. Obviously.” Victor sat up in the bed. A sudden wave of energy had hit him and Victor drank it in hungrily as he straightened his (Cerval’s?) pjs on his lithe frame. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should be getting back to the lab. Thanks for the donut.” He snatched up the sprinkled pastry as he strode quickly towards the door.

 

* * *

 

        When the monster awoke, the dark skies were replaced by birdsong, sunlight, and a chorus of voices. He nearly felt normal, though it took only a matter of seconds before he felt the aching pain of his limbs and the sting of his stitches. He sat up slowly, afraid that something might rip or fall off should he move too quickly.

        He pulled the lab coat over his arms and shoulders, feeling the fabric strain over his large frame. He inspected his body in this new light. Pigment was returning to his flesh; his stomach was pink where it wasn’t a fierce, sticky red around a wound. He did not recognize the birthmark near his hip, which was distressing, nor did he recognize the scars on his hands. In the back of his mind he had a faint memory that his hands were supposed to be delicate, with long, slender fingers rather than the muscular ones that pressed against his skin. He felt afraid to see his face.

        As he stood, long shocks of dark hair fell loosely around his neck and eyes. He brushed them aside, making note that this could possibly be his hair, which was reassuring. He stood cautiously, and tried to make out the sounds in his new environment. He recognized human voices, but not the words. He felt that some of the birdsongs were more familiar than others. He thought he could make out music--classical, from the Romantic period. In his head, he tried to move the fingers on his left hand along with it, but found that his muscles couldn’t recall the motions. They felt numb.

        He moved to the desk, across which papers were strewn. The window was open, but he dared not move too close to it. He still felt afraid, but now with an edge of interest and curiosity. He wanted to leave the lab. He turned around, and startled when he caught his reflection in a glass closet door. He was naked. He remembered that. But He hadn’t seen the full effect of whatever nightmare had happened to him. He was still the same height; he’d been very tall before. Nearly six foot five. His body, however, was muscular now in a way it hadn’t been before, and he couldn’t remember feeling like his limbs were heavy. He ran his hands down his face, which was more or less the same, save for the new eyes. Blue, and doe-like. He traced his fingers down his neck, past his clavicle, and to his chest. He felt every slight change in skin texture and muscle tone. His stomach was hard and smooth, and he could tell that from his chest to his groin were all from the same source, save for the I-shaped scar indicating that perhaps his organs weren’t from the same donor.

        The next seam was at his groin, clear against what appeared to be clean-shaven pubic hair. He was circumcised now, and everything felt bigger. His legs were from a matched set. Both thighs were well-toned and lean, like that of a sprinter. He was glad that they, at least, were symmetrical. He wondered at his creator. He knew that this couldn’t simply be some deranged nightmare, since you weren’t supposed to be able to wake up and sleep in dreams.

        He was broken away from his thoughts when he heard a knocking at the door, and someone fussing with the lock. Panic jumped in his throat, and he searched for a place to hide. Finding none before the door creaked open, he pulled off the coat so that he could wrap it around his waist.

        “Victor, you missed pharmacology _and_ our lab exam review. You can’t just bail on us--Oh, God!” A young woman entered the room and recoiled back. “Who the fuck are you?” A beat. “Are you...okay?”

        The young woman approached him, and for each step she took forward he tried to take a step back. He felt the cold glass of the closet door against his skin. He shook his head, afraid to try to speak.

        “My name is Lin. I’m a pre-med student with EMT training. Is it okay if I take a look at you?” She approached slowly, as if he were an animal. He shook his head. She stopped.“Okay. Can I call someone for you?”

        She looked him over, and with every second longer she stared he could see the horror growing on her face. He felt ashamed; revolted. He wanted to ask about Victor, and about where he was, and what an EMT was. He shook his head.

        “Can you talk?” She spoke slowly. “Do you speak English?”

        He shook his head. He needed her to leave. If he could stay here, Victor might come back. He might have answers. He needed to find a way to make this seem normal.

        “...Victor,” He managed, clumsily adding extra weight to the vowels like some sort of European foreigner.

        “Are you his…Friend?” She looked at him with a mix of concern and suspicion. He shrugged. “Do you have a phone? Do you want me to call him?” The monster nodded.

        She took out a phone, and dialed it quickly. The two stood in stony silence, and he could hear the ringing. She groaned as she heard the dial tone.

 _“You have reached Victor Frankenstein. I am busy. Please send me a text or email me, and I will return your message in 2-14 business days.”_ It cut off.

        “Hey Victor, it’s Lin. There’s, um, a friend of yours in your lab. He seems pretty badly beat up, and he seems not to have clothes? Anyway, I swear to God that if this is some sort of a weird sex thing or a prank, or a HIPPA or human rights violation, I absolutely will report you and you _will_ get expelled for ignoring every rule about lab safety and human endangerment. I’m going to get him some clothes from my place, and if you aren’t here by the time I get back, I’m calling the police.” She paused. “By the way, we got a perfect score on the group project, no thanks to you. Brian had to rewrite every word of your section of the lab report. Bye.”

        She shut off the phone and turned to face the monster. He was shaking, and hunched over by the closet. She furrowed her brow.

        “Listen, I’m going to go drive back to my boyfriend’s apartment and steal some clothes for you. If that bastard isn’t back by the time I am, we need to get you to a hospital. I have no idea what happened to you, but you look like you have at least five different serious injuries and a mild fever. Don’t leave the room.” She headed towards the door. “I have a key to this place, since it is technically a shared lab. I’m gonna lock the door so that no one bothers you.”

        She left, and the monster collapsed to the ground, quivering with fear.

 

 


	3. Bad Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry wakes to find that nightmares are real. Victor is denied rights. The Creation speaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry is by KnightVanguard, Victor by timeandspaces, and The Creation is by Woolfsbane
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter include brief descriptions of body horror and panic attacks.

        Okay, so Victor didn’t go around fucking dead people who had donated their bodies to science. That is...good. It’s a step in the right direction. Then there was the matter that Victor had been in his bed and in his clothes. That was good, Henry decided as he licked a spot of chocolate frosting from his thumb. Then again, Victor had said something about raising the dead, so he might want to go check on him. “But is this an actual problem?” Henry said aloud, to no one in particular. “He’s just being dramatic.”

        Henry shrugged and lay back down on his bed, where Victor had been before. How sweet he looked when he slept, not that Henry looked or anything. That would be creepy.

        In the daytime, everything was quiet and calm. There were birds and music, lovely music, that came from everywhere. Light filtered through his window and picked up the reddish color of his hair and the softness of his amber eyes. As he tilted his head, his wire-frame glasses slid further down his nose. He supposed he should put on a shirt and maybe real pants, but Henry never wanted to leave his bed ever again.

        When all was said and done, he picked a purple shirt with silver buttons and some grey pants. He looked rather dashing, if he did say so himself. It was a nice day. First a meeting with his thesis advisor, then a nice lunch with Justine, then maybe a walk in a garden so he could write, maybe stopping by that cute bubble tea place. With Victor. He was supposed to do that with Victor. The same Victor who was raising the dead. But people don’t actually raise the dead. That’s a thing people do in movies. Henry thought for a moment. There’s the creepy shut in who hasn’t seen the sunlight in weeks. They just sit alone in their labs and take notes and dissect hearts and monologue to themselves incessantly.

        Henry slammed a copy of  _ Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel _  on the table. Victor Frankenstein was definitely raising the dead. Henry had read enough books to know that raising the dead never goes well. Henry also knew that Victor had definitely not read enough to have learned the same lesson. His phone buzzed.

 _ How’s Victor?  _ Elizabeth typed. Now, Henry could do the responsible thing and tell her the truth and save them all the world of trouble. However, Victor would probably be angry with him.

 _ IDK, pretty shaken _  he replied

 _Living?_   She asked.

 _ Mostly  _ Henry picked up his messenger bag and put the book inside. Strangely, he didn’t feel afraid. On the contrary, he was excited. Of course, Victor told him the reanimation didn’t work, but when does anything like that ever work the first time? Henry framed it in his head like this: even if Victor was batshit insane, he was attempting to give a dead person another chance at a nice, fulfilling life. It truly was a medical marvel when he thought of it. Plus, secretly Henry always wanted to be the side character in a cool, action-suspense novel. They tended to totally not die cruel and terrible deaths. Henry laughed to himself. Good thing this was real life, and not a story book.

        Once Henry finally got his ass outside, he found himself distracted by all manner of things. The autumn air was crisp despite the rain from the night before. About five types of birds flapped blissfully through the air. They had no idea gross, supernatural atrocities were being committed on this very campus. All they cared about was nectar. Moss grew in the cracks between old bricks and the spores would catch in the breeze to go make more moss. Tiny purple mushrooms grew between the gnarled branches of huge oak trees and there were birds that sang.

        Everything beautiful in nature started falling out of Henry’s focus, but he could hear the birds, and they sang, and it was beautiful. The birds were beautiful. They were beautiful and good and the birds had never done anything wrong. Henry tried to take a few more steps, but everything was so loud, and he couldn’t think. He knew there were people around; there had to be. 23,000 people on a campus and one of them was trying to bring people back from the dead. Not just anyone. No, it had to be the one person that he loved. No, he didn’t love. He couldn’t just love someone who honestly thought they could bring people back to life and just have it be an okay thing. No, but he did.

        Henry tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and hit the ground hard. “Oh my god, are you okay?” someone asked him.

        “Yeah yeah yeah, I’m fine,” he said as he tried to prop himself back up.

        “Dude, are you drunk? It’s a Tuesday morning?” some guy asked.

        “No, just an all nighter, you know how things are,” Henry laughed nervously. He awkwardly ran away from the gathering crowd of people. Well no, he half-jogged, half-walked, and it made it so much worse. He sat down on a bench and held his face in his hands.

        “This isn’t real,” He said to himself. “I just had a really wild morning and I thought I heard something exciting and that’s it.” He took off his glasses and polished them on the hem of his shirt. “That’s it. He doesn’t want to reanimate corpses. That’s not something that Victor would want to do.” He placed his glasses back on his face. He straightened his clothes and pushed back his hair so he at least sort of looked like he wasn’t having a small panic attack.

        There was, of course, only one way to see what was really going on, and that was going to Victor’s lab. While in the building he passed by one of Victor’s friends...colleagues? He wasn’t sure Victor had friends. He thought her name was Lee, maybe Lou. Victor had changed her name every time he spoke of her.

        “Hey,” she snapped. She looked terrified. She sighed and tried to steady herself. “Look, I know it’s not your fault, but you need to get your boy toy to deal with whatever the hell he’s done.”

        “My what?” he asked, but she was already gone.

        It really wasn’t unusual for Victor to be getting into trouble, and there was probably just a mess in the lab, like there always is. Victor was bad at things like rules and safety and basic hygiene. Nothing a few hours with a mop couldn’t fix.

        Once again, Henry could smell Victor’s lab from three doors down, but this time he didn’t have a scarf to protect himself. He knocked on the door softly.

        “Victor,” he said. “I have some time before my meeting so I can help you do some cleaning.” He tested the handle and sure enough it was unlocked. “I just thought it would be nice if we talked-”

        There was a man in that room and it wasn’t Victor. Or maybe it was, he couldn’t quite tell. He made hazy eye contact with that...person and collapsed in the doorway.

 

* * *

 

        “I’d like a caramel mocha frappe with fifteen shots of espresso, please.” Victor slapped fifteen bucks on the counter and smiled at Elizabeth, who looked up from her phone, startled.

        “Oh! There you are!” She set her phone aside and leaned forward.

        “Here I am.” Victor confirmed pleasantly. “Espresso, please.”

         “Clerval was looking for you. You left in a hurry this morning.”

        “I needed to get to the lab.”

        “It was rude.” Elizabeth adjusted her apron and glanced to the irritated customer behind Victor. “Next in line, please!”

        “Hey, I was here first!” Victor glared at the customer who glanced him over once, taking in his wild eyes, rumpled pajama shirt, and the purple bags beneath his eyes, and made the smart decision to leave the store. Victor turned and beamed at Elizabeth. “So. One caramel mocha frappe with sixteen shots of espresso, please.”

        Elizabeth shot him an unimpressed look. “What’s got you acting like such a needy bitch this morning?”

        “I’m not a needy bitch.” Victor pushed his money farther forward on the counter. “One caramel frappe mocha with seventeen shots of espresso, please.”

        Elizabeth pushed the money back. “Vic, we’ve been over this. I can’t legally, morally, or ethically support your caffeine addiction.”

        She walked down the counter to drink pick-up and started swirling a smoothie. Victor hastened to follow. Around him, the nearly empty coffee shop seemed to swirl softly, drinking in the sweet autumn air outside. It would be the perfect morning for a walk through the woods or sitting outside with a hot drink, if he could ever convince his sister to give him one. He tried to pull up the best puppy eyes he could manage and leaned forward into the counter.

        “Liz. Lizzie, my dear, beautiful, talented, amazing-”

        “No.”

        “Oh c’mon!” Victor straightened his shirt indignantly. “This has got to be against Starbucks policy.”

        “Actually, denying you espresso drinks  _ is _  the store policy.” Without looking, Elizabeth tapped the wall behind her, on which there hung a blurry photo of a slightly crazed-looking Victor jabbing his finger into the camera. Underneath the picture a little label declared that ‘Following the Nunchucks Incident of Spring 2004, this man should not be sold espresso or energy drinks.’

        Victor frowned. “It’s been over a year, I think the policy should have expired by now.”

        “Sorry, Starbucks says Victors don’t get rights.”

        “Inequality!” Victor muttered. “Why is everyone so intent on oppressing scientists?”

        “‘Cause they suck.” Elizabeth finished mixing the smoothie and set it on the counter. “Banana mango smoothie. Go nuts.”

        “I hate bananas.”

        “Tough titty. I hate you, but you don’t see me complaining about it.”

        “I’m your brother!” Victor took a totally not pouty sip of the smoothie.

        “I’m adopted and that is my only saving grace in life.” Elizabeth answered, deadpan. “Your total is $3.52.”

        Victor groaned, but put down the smoothie and dug out the ten he’d put on the counter earlier to pay. Elizabeth took it and began to switch out the change before something caught her eye and she froze. “Are you...wearing Henry’s shirt?”

        “Hm?” Victor glanced down to his shirt, the same red set Clerval had given him the night before. He rubbed a finger across the sleeve, testing out the softness. “Yeah. Yeah, he lent it to me. Why-”

        Victor startled violently as Elizabeth  launched  herself over the counter. He could barely track what was happening as she snatched his hand and, with a yell about taking a break to her co-worker, dragged him into the bathroom.

        “Elizabeth!”

        “Okay, okay, I want details!” Elizabeth breached his personal space way too fast and Victor took an uneasy step back. “How did it happen? Was it a date, or spur of the moment? Did you guys talk? Who did what? You couldn’t have topped because you’re a needy little fuck, but would Henry-”

        Victor retreated to the wall of the single bathroom and Elizabeth, apparently sensing the distress she caused, came to a halt. She took a breath. “Sorry, Vic. Just got excited.”

        “We didn’t-” Victor collected himself carefully, gathering his anxiety back into a neat pile. “We didn’t fuck, Liz.”

        “Oh.” Disappointment flitted across Elizabeth’s face. “Then why-”

        “I just borrowed it. Mine got wet.”

        “Oh.”

        They stood in awkward silence for a moment. Elizabeth tapped her foot. Victor rubbed his sleeve. The shirt smelled like Clerval. Like early fall and thunderstorms and the lingering traces of flowery cologne. It was comforting.

        “Did you want to?”

        Victor sighed. “Want to what?”

        “You know.” Elizabeth prompted.

        He shrugged, shifting in place. “I mean...it’s just…”

        “Just...what?”

        Victor shrugged again and Elizabeth smiled. “C’mon, Vic. We both know that you like him. It’s painfully obvious. Like,  _painfully obvious_. ”

        “Well.”

        “Like, honestly, I do mean painful. It’s horrible to live with you.”

        “I’m a delight.”

        “You’re a terror and always have been.”

        “Listen.” Victor stressed. “I am, like, way too busy for this. I have a lot going on in my life: work, school, more work. I don’t have time for...Clerval. Besides,” he glanced away, “he should really date someone else.”

        “Like who?” Elizabeth asked. “You know he’s nuts about you.”

        “Well, he shouldn’t be.” Victor snapped. He immediately regretted the action as Elizabeth’s gaze turned pitying. “I just…” he fumbled for a second before regaining himself, “I’m busy. And he’s a poet and I don’t even know how those work and- He should date Robert Walton.”

        “You mean that kid who’s, like, way too into his ROTC program?”

        “Yeah!” Victor ducked around her and made a beeline for the bathroom door. “They’re both English majors, they can bond over thinking about how life is terrible and the world is full of flowers or whatever. It’s ideal.”

        He snatched the door handle and yanked it askew.

        “You’re going to have to deal with this eventually!” He heard Elizabeth’s call echo behind him.

        “Yeah, uh huh, sounds great, see you later!”

        He evacuated the Starbucks at record pace, absconding into the crisp November day.

 

* * *

 

        The creation just stared at the collapsed boy for several seconds. He had said ‘Victor,’ so perhaps this one, too, knew where the man was. When the guy didn’t move, the creation stood up carefully, tying the lab coat securely around his waist. He closed the door to the lab, and knelt beside the fainted figure.

        Clerval woke up after about thirty seconds. When he did, he wished he had just stayed asleep. The...creature was now sitting on the ground about three feet away from him, staring at him with striking, though bloodshot, blue eyes.

        “Who are…?” Clerval looked around the lab. The table that once housed the cadaver was empty. He could also swear he recognized the eyes. From a bottle, that Victor had shown him just the day before. “Oh, dear god.”

        “...Victor?” The creation spoke.

        “No no no, this isn’t happening. Nope, this is a stress dream. Not happening.” Clerval ran a hand through his hair and picked up his glasses from the floor.

        “‘No’,” the creature repeated. He felt other words toying on the tip of his tongue, but he’d only say what he knew he could muster. “No? Victor.”

        “Right. Victor. Jesus Christ. I need to call Victor.” Clerval reached into his pocket and drew his phone with shaky hands. “Call Victor. It’s fine. It’s a dream. Dream Victor will know how to handle this.” He started to dial, messing up the typing several times due to his anxiety.

        The creation took in this new person. He was smaller than him, and had dark circles under his eyes. His hair was a reddish blonde, and wore effeminate clothing. He looked very different from the one who came earlier. He wanted to ask about clothes.

        “Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up…” Clerval whispered as the phone rang.

        “ _You have reached Victor Frankenstein. I am busy. Please send me a text or email me, and I will return your message in 2-14 business days_.”

        “Goddammit Victor!”  Clerval yelled. The voicemail button beeped. “Victor, it’s me. I really, really need you to come to the lab, like right now. I-I think-” The monster tugged lightly at Clerval’s sleeve, causing his to recoil. “Fuck! Don’t touch me! Victor, please. Please just come over to your lab.” Clerval hung up.

        The creation had moved away by about a foot after being shouted at. Clerval looked him over, and tried not to be sick. He’d never had a stomach for gore, or horror, or even trips to the doctor’s office. This guy looked like he’d gone through a blender, and the blender won. At least there wasn’t too much blood, save for the wound on his hand. Just wet scabs around the stitches and weird transparent ooze. He vaguely remembered that there were supposedly white blood cells in the body. He stared at the person for another minute before dialing his phone again.

        “ _You have reached Victor Franken_ \--

        “Victor! Pick up your stupid phone!”

        “-- _send me a text or email me, and I will return your message in 2-14 business days_.”

        “Victor it’s me again. I- you need to come over here. I am going to call you every minute until you either pick up or walk through that door. I swear to god, this is the worst ten minutes of my life and you-” He was about to demand that Victor pay for his trauma counseling. Victor had lost his credit card recently and hadn’t bothered looking for it, so that was out of the question. “Listen, please just come over. If you care about me at all. Or pick up.” He closed the line.

        “Victor?” The monster said. He kept himself small (or as small as he could be). “I...Victor.”

        “I expect that he’s on his way,” Clerval felt insane. “I mean, he practically lives here…”

        “Who…?” Every word he spoke felt exhausting.

        “I don’t know. I have no idea.” Clerval hesitated. He held out his hand cautiously. “I- I’m Henry.” The monster reached out and took his hand. “Ow, ow, ow please let go!” Clerval struggled against the vice grip. The monster released him immediately, and Clerval nursed his injured hand. “You could have broken my fingers!”

        The monster looked his hands, so big and unfamiliar. He looked back to Clerval, and nodded once slowly.

        “Okay. It’s been another minute. I’m calling Victor again.”


	4. Inside the Lab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry makes a friend. Victor is a bad parent. The Creature gets a name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for: medical trauma and mild body horror  
> A reminder: Henry's POV is written by KnightVanguard, Victor's POV is by timeandspaces, and The Creation's POV is by Woolfsbane

        Henry was just now coming to the conclusion that this might actually be real. “ _You have reached Victor Frankenstein. Send me a text or email me, and I will return your message in--_ Clerval? I’m out with Liz”

 _“_ Oh thank god,” Henry could feel tears welling up in his eyes. “What did you do? You told me it didn’t work.”

        “Do you mean...?” Victor asked.

        “Please, please come and help me. I’m so scared,” Henry looked at the person kneeling across from him. “He looks scared too.”

        “He? Who’s he?” Victor’s voice rose about a third.

        “I...I don’t actually know,” he covered the receiver of his phone and called out to the person, “What’s your name?” He looked back at Henry for a moment and blinked slowly. “Do you remember?” The person shook his head. “Do you want me to give you one?” The person thought for a moment and nodded his head.

        “Clerval, I don’t have all day,” Victor snapped through his shirt, but Henry ignored him.

        “Okay, nod if you hear a name you like,” Henry said, “Clarence, Warren, Tesla, Auguste.” All the names were met with a wide-eyed stare. “...Brad?” Henry tried. The person shook his head emphatically no. “Hmm, well...umm Modeste? Pyotr? Anatol? Jascha?” At that, the person nodded and almost smiled. “Do you like Jascha?” The person nodded again. “Wonderful! Victor, his name is Jascha.” Henry said.

        “Oh, that makes sense, if I’m right. Oh this is amazing” Henry could hear Victor pacing on the other end. “Look, I’m on my way back right now to deal with it, just sit tight.”

        Henry made eye contact with Jascha, who was still sitting on the floor, curled as tight in on himself as he possibly could. “Please don’t use “it” Victor. He’s a person. He’s your person.”

        “Yeah, right. Are you okay, Clerval?” He asked.

        “I’m fine, I’ve calmed down a little bit, but I’m still really worried about Jascha. He looks like he’s in bad shape. We should probably take him to a hospital.”

        “No, no, we definitely cannot do that,” Victor said.

        “Why not? Unless you suddenly got a medical degree I don’t know about,” Henry snapped.

        “Because,” Victor lowered his voice to a whisper, “I stitched him together myself. I think a trained professional might just notice that this man is supposed to be dead.”

        “So it is real.”

        “You had been talking as if it were?”

        “Yeah, but to hear you say it. This is unreal. What are we going to do?” Henry asked.

        “We?” Victor still hadn’t raised his voice above a whisper.

        “Well yeah...I figured, I’m here and I know what’s up and we could take care of him together,” Henry explained.

        “Okay, okay, yeah sure, something like that. Look, I’ll be at my lab in 15 minutes, try not to get yourself killed before then.”

        “Why would I-” Henry began to say, but Victor had already hung up.

        Henry then sat down next you Jascha. “Do you want to try again. I’m sorry I snapped earlier, this is just a very new experience for the both of us.” He nodded and Henry held out his hand. “I’m Henry, Henry Clerval.” Jascha took his hand and gently held it. After an awkward second, Henry moved his arm up and down. “See, it’s not that bad. Can you say your name? Ja-scha?”

        “Ja-scha?” he said, unsure.

        “Good, good!” Henry was pleased. This was going to be okay. It had to be okay. “Can you repeat after me? I am Jascha.”

        “I...am…Jascha,” there were long breaks in between the words, but it was better than it was before.

        “Okay, do you remember how to write?” Henry asked. Jascha looked down at his hands and flexed his fingers slowly. “It’s okay if not,” he said, “you can learn anything with some time and practice.”

        He walked over to a chalkboard and erased some of Victor’s notes. He assumed they were not particularly relevant at this point anyway. Jascha stumbled to his feet and took small, pained steps over to him. Henry took off his jacket and draped it around his shoulders.

        “It’s not much, but it’ll help for now,” he smiled up at Jascha. “Here’s some chalk.” Jascha tried to hold it in his fingers like he used to, but he dropped it. Henry bent down to pick it up. “It’s okay, hold it like this,” and he showed him how. “First we have a J,” Henry drew the letter on the board with a stylistic loop. “Then an ‘a’” and Henry copied the letter, “Then ‘s’ ‘c’ ‘h’ ‘a’. See, easy. You’ve got this.”

        Jascha started to write his name under Henry’s beautiful script. The letters were shaky and ugly, but they were legible, and that’s what counts.

        “It’s kinda funny, you know,” Henry began to ramble, “I was going through my list of names and Jascha just struck me because I’d been listening to this awesome recording of the Vitali Chaconne by Jascha Heifetz. So ummm, you might as well know. He was a Jewish-American violinist born in Lithuania and he was good. Like, really really good. He’s the best ever, I think, not that I know much about violin or anything. Well, I know he did some really cool social stuff in California. You know, a lot of stuff about establishing 911 as an emergency line, protesting smog in LA by wearing gas masks. It’s really cool, I think,” Henry blushed, “But look at me rambling, your name looks wonderful.”

        “Thank...you,” he said and he smiled the first real smile since Henry had seen him.

        “It’s no problem,” Henry beamed, truly, this man that Victor had created was just a person and people are wonderful. He checked his watch, “Victor should be here any minute. I’m sure he’s going to be so proud of you.”

 

* * *

 

        Victor rounded the hall at rapid speeds, skidding on the overly slick tile floor like he was on a slip and slide. It had worked! How had it worked? He had checked for a pulse, nothing, he had taken all the right steps to be sure, but the thing on the table had still been a corpse not twenty-four hours ago and now! Now he was up and walking and apparently talking to Clerval in some kind of way! It was extraordinary! Even if it had worked straight off, he’d expected the experiment’s cognitive functions to take at least a day to return fully, but it was apparent already forming coherent thoughts! Reacting to stimuli! Wandering around his lab unsupervised!

        Okay so that last part was less exciting and more concerning, but the point still remained that he, Victor Frankenstein, had done it! He’d brought a man back from the grave, restored life to a creation viciously ripped from the world and given to the mercy of an early death! Just think of the wonders that would come of this, the advances to biology, psychology, medical knowledge! Did it remember death? Did it feel pain? Did it retain memories? Victor skidded around another corner and caught sight of his lab entrance. He grinned, a bit maniacally perhaps, but with true fervor. His creation. The sum of work, his dreams, his passions lay beyond that door.

        He didn’t bother to knock as he threw it open. “Clerval!”  
As expected, the man startled violently at the sudden intrusion, leaping about a foot into the air, but Victor had eyes only for the creature. Upon his entrance, the skittish thing had thrown itself beneath his desk, the same way a squirrel might upon seeing a dog. This only delighted Victor further, however. It was reactive! It was responsive! It had retained enough muscle memory to react to danger in a way which made sense to the situation!

        “Oh, you are _beautiful._ ” He breathed as the creature began to tremble.

        Victor shoved his way past Clerval as the other man worked to recover his breath, ducking down to peer beneath the table to the creature, who stared back at him with frightfully large, strikingly blue eyes. He felt a rush of euphoria. Blue eyes had been the right call by far.

        He stood, raced to the table, and began to dig through the medical bag he stored there. Lifted from the gynecology department, but what did they need it for anyways?

        “Victor?”

        “What?” Victor was only half paying attention as Clerval approached him. A hand came to rest on his shoulder, but Victor shrugged it off as it was impeding his motion.

        “Jascha-”

        “Jascha?” Victor froze and turned to Clerval. “Did it tell you that was its name?”

        “His name.” Clerval corrected, taking a step back from Victor’s sudden invasion of his space. “And, no, I guessed.”

        “You guessed.” Victor said dumbly. “Of all the names, in all the worlds, you-” he bit himself off with a laugh. He reached forward and grabbed Clerval’s face in his hands. “Oh, Clerval, you are astounding! Truely, wonderfully, impossibly astounding!”

        Clerval blinked at him before a small smile spread across his facade along with a blush. “Yeah? I am?”

        “Oh, absolutely!” Something hard hit the desk’s underside and Victor whipped towards the noise. He grinned harder. “And, of course, we can’t forget our guest!”

        He took the room in five long strides and crouched by the desk once more. “Come out, come out! Let’s get you on the table and see exactly what I have achieved here!”

        The experiment shrunk farther beneath the bench, but, with a voice more guttural than strong, it spoke to him. “Victor?”

        A spark of pure delight invaded him. “Yes! Yes, that’s my name! How did you learn that? But, wait, you won’t have full vocal range for at least five more hours.” Victor reached forward and grabbed his experiment roughly by the wrist. Whether it was suprise or submission that allowed him to drag the thing out from under the table was irrelevant, but with little fuss he managed to shove the reanimated man onto the examination table where it sat, shivering slightly; miserably. In its striking blue eyes, Victor could see deep awareness, anxiety, curiosity, frustration, and something akin to terror. It was more than he could have ever hoped for!

        “Victor!” This time Clerval grappled both his shoulders and turned him around.

        “Clerval?” Victor smiled. “Do you see it? Do you see what I’ve created?”

        “It?” The experiment muttered.

        “Yes, yes, I see.” Clerval’s face was an unreadable mess of emotions that Victor simply didn’t have the vocabulary to understand in that moment, but he could only take the edge in Clerval’s voice as a type of fear. Victor leaned forward and, in a rare spring of desire for physical affection, grabbed both of Clerval’s hands.

        “It’s alright, dear friend, it won’t hurt you. You see, it’s quite docile.”

        “It.” The experiment said more clearly.

        Victor turned to him, not bothering to free Clerval’s hands. “Yes, ‘it,’ that’s you.”

        “ _He,_ Victor.” Clerval interjected. “He’s a he.”

        The experiment looked to Clerval and nodded. “He.” It repeated. It brought a hesitant hand to its chest. “Jascha.”

        “Jascha.” Victor breathed. “Indeed, you are Jascha.”

        “Look, Victor,” Clerval drew Victor’s attention away, dragging him towards the (now erased?) chalkboard, “we even wrote it out.”

        “It wrote?” Victor asked, delighted.

        “ _He._ And, yes, he wrote. Aren’t you proud?”

        Victor blinked and turned to Clerval. “Proud?” He asked in confusion. “Why would I be proud?”

        “Well. It’s-”

        “A stunning display of underlying muscle memory and cognitive functioning, yes, but it didn’t do anything. Just-” he waved a vague hand “-copied letters. No, what we should be impressed with is that my stitching has held up so well.”

        He approached the experiment and snatched one of his hands, glancing it over. The experiment tensed, but did not pull away. “You’ve already injured yourself?” Victor asked as he examined a scabbed over cut running diagonally across the experiment’s palm. “I suppose I should have put away the sharp tools before I left. You currently have the cognitive ability of a toddler, after all. It was inevitable you’d end up damaged without supervision. Regardless, I can get that fixed up right now.”

        Victor returned to the medical tools and began looking for gauze.

 

* * *

 

        Jascha shook his head as Victor tried to take his injured hand. He could see the needle and the thread, and the gauze, and some part of him knew he would hate this.

        “Come on. Give me your hand.” Victor pulled against Jascha’s wrist, but to no avail. He was much stronger than Victor. “Give it. Be good.”

        “Victor, he’s an adult,” Clerval scolded. Jascha buried his hands under his arms, bracing against Victor’s grip. He shook his head.

        “No,” said Jascha.

        “Yes,” Victor dug his nails in a bit, and Jascha winced. “Oh, good. It seems you can feel pain. Give me your hand.”

        “‘Give me your hand, _please_.’ Operative term being ‘please.’ I know you have manners.” Clerval was quickly losing the last shreds of his cool. He watched as Victor grabbed, pulled,        and even shook Jascha in attempts to get him to give in. “For the love of--Get out of the way.”

        Clerval shoved Victor out of the way, much to his surprise. Clerval took a deep breath, and regained some of his lost composure. He held out a hand to Jascha. “Jascha, can I please see your hand?”

        Tentatively, Jascha placed his wounded hand in Clerval’s. Clerval took the gauze from Victor, as well as some antiseptic. He gracelessly poured out some of the solution onto the fabric, and dabbed at the wound gently. Jascha flinched away at first, but relaxed a bit after the shock wore off. Victor hovered behind Clerval.

        “Let me look at it. You don’t even know how to treat wounds. He needs stitches; look at how deep it is!” Victor tried to push Clerval out of the way, causing Clerval to jostle Jascha’s hand. A fresh stream of blood rushed out as the flesh was disturbed.

        Jascha gasped, and clutched his hand to his chest. Blood dripped down his arm and onto the table and his lap. His breathing became rapid as he panicked, and he looked at Clerval and Victor with terrified eyes.

        “Dammit Clerval! What the hell were you thinking?!” Victor pushed past him and stood in from of his creation.

        “What was _I_ thinking? What were _you_ thinking?” Clerval’s cheeks flushed with anger. “You know what? I can’t deal with this. I’m going to leave.” He turned and started walking towards the door.

        “No. No!” Jascha jumped down from the table and tried to follow Clerval, knocking Victor off balance as he brushed past. Clerval stopped midway through opening the door.

        “Listen, Jascha, I’ll come back in a bit. With clothes.” Clerval looked him over sadly. Many of his seams were soaked with new blood from all the sudden movements, and he could tell from how badly he was shaking that he was scared, and probably in considerable pain. “I’ll come back in, at most, half an hour.” He closed the door behind him.

        “Okay, ‘Jascha.’ You can’t avoid me forever.” Victor approached him almost menacingly. Jascha backed up until he was in a corner.

        Victor pulled a small voice recorder from his pocket and turned it on.

        “Notes from…” He squinted at the calendar. “November ninth. The experiment was a success, and is making impressive progress. Its cognitive abilities, which were predicted to not exceed that of perhaps a five-year old child, seem to be surpassing every best-case scenario…”

        Victor placed Jascha’s hands by his sides forcefully, taking the injured hand firmly. He dabbed at it again, and then started adding stitches. Jascha flinched with each pass of the needle, and tears ran down his face.

        “...It seems to have advanced kinesthetic awareness and abilities. Within approximately twelve hours of creation it seems to have a full range of motion, and a normal perception of physical pain, though further tests are recommended. It has a wounded hand, likely from playing with my medical instruments during the night. Blood flow indicates that its physiology and clotting abilities are relatively normal. I will conduct a full blood analysis later this afternoon, as well as some other tissue biopsies.”

        He finished stitching the hand and coiled clean bandages around it. He started patting the small beads of blood around the seams with cotton balls, batting away Jascha’s hands as he tried to intervene.

        “No...Please,” Jascha’s voice sounded clearer than it had previously. “Please, Victor.”

        “Dr. Frankenstein, please. Can you repeat that?” Victor didn’t make eye contact, nor did he stop his work.

        “Doc-tor. Frank...en...stein,” Jascha trembled. “Please, stop.”

        Victor paused for a moment. Jascha shifted slightly in discomfort. “Did you tie this coat around your waist?”

        Jascha nodded. He tried to inch away, but Victor stopped him. He pressed the recorder again. “Subject shows greater dexterity than previously anticipated. He has managed to, at some point in the last few hours, tie a lab coat around his waist. This also indicates a self-consciousness, since presumably it was to conceal its genital area.” Victor released the button and smiled. “Wonderful. Wonderful! Alright. I want to inspect your stitches down there, since it is more likely to get infected than the other areas.” Victor moved to untie the lab coat.

        Jascha slapped his hands away hard, causing Victor to recoil backwards. He escaped from the corner and ran back to the table, grabbing the scalpel from the cart. Victor let out a string of profanities as he turned back to face him.

        “Jascha, I am your creator. There is nothing on you that I haven’t already seen and handled. Don’t make this a bigger deal than it is,” he approached slowly as he saw the scalpel held towards him. “Come on, now. Don’t threaten me. I only want to help.”

        “No,” Jascha stood his ground, knowing better now than to back into a wall or corner.

        “Clerval will be back soon. Can you even imagine how upset he’d be if he saw us fighting like this?” Victor kept closing the distance between them, inch by inch. “Besides, if you hurt me, I may decide to stop treating you. You’re currently at a high risk for sepsis and other infections. And what hospital is equipped to treat you?”

        “No,” Jascha shook his head. Victor was now within five feet of him, and his hands quivered. “Please stop.” At that instant, the door opened quickly.

        “Okay, I’m ba--Jesus Christ! Victor! What are you doing?” Lin entered the room, carrying a pile of clothes and a plastic CVS bag. “Also, you! Drop that scalpel!”

        “Jascha. I am Jascha,” he said. He lowered the scalpel.

        “Lin! Get the fuck out of my lab!” Victor snapped at her. “I told you to ditch your copy of the key. You don’t even use this lab!”

        “Well, maybe if you weren’t such an unreliable lab partner I would have, but someone has to get in here to get your lab notes when you skip our meetings. Now, explain. Everything.”

        “Nope. You wouldn’t understand.” Victor crossed his arms. Jascha slipped past him and moved towards Lin. Lin handed him the bag of clothes.

        “Here you go, Jascha. There’s a hoodie, t-shirt, boxers, and some sweatpants.” Lin’s tone was gentle with him. “Victor. If you don’t explain what’s going on I am going to call the cops.”

        Victor scowled at her, and rushed over to Jascha. He tried to take the bag from him, but failed. “Goddammit Jascha, I need to finish inspecting your stitches before you put on clothes. I also need to apply some compression bandages.” Jascha shook his head and hid behind Lin.

        “What the fuck is wrong with your bedside manners? Jesus, give me the med kit.” She snatched the kit from Victor’s hands and turned to face Jascha. “Is it alright if I take a look at your injuries?”

        Jascha looked between her and Victor, and nodded once to her. He kept his eyes on Victor, who looked like he was about to start screaming. Lin opened up the medical kit and started wiping down his seams with alcohol, then applying a thin layer of antibacterial cream. She moved quickly, starting at his face and hairline and moving down until she hit his waist. She then turned and gave Victor a look of death.

        “Victor…Please tell me that there aren’t any stitches under that lab coat.” Victor didn’t respond for several seconds. “Victor!”

        “There are a few.” He finally said.

        “You changed his dick?”

        “It wasn’t perfect.”

        “What the hell does ‘perfect’ mean?! You can’t just do that to people!” She paused. “What exactly did you do to him? He looks like he’s made of...spare parts?”

        “Maybe.” Victor didn’t look at her.

        “This isn’t a real medical procedure. People can’t just be put together from parts.”

        “This one was. Is. Look at him; he’s beautiful,” Victor gestured to Jascha. “I picked only the absolute best pieces from each person. Once those ugly seams close up he’ll be perfect!”

        “This breaks every single medical ethics code to ever exist. I should turn you in.”

        “If you turn me in, he will be killed. Again.” Victor said defiantly. Jascha’s nervous trembling resumed. “Look at him! He knows enough English to know what we’re saying.”

        “No shit, Sherlock,” Lin sighed. “I’m going to stay quiet about this. For _him_. And I’m going to tell all of our professors that you’ve never once done your portion of the assignments. I’m done covering for you.” Victor rolled his eyes. “And I’m going to be the one to clean him up.”

        “Absolutely not. You have no idea how delicate his physiology is, you’ll-”

        “Hurt him? You already have.” Lin said coldly. “Anyways, he gave me his medical consent. Not you.” She turned back to Jascha. “I’m really sorry about this, but I really am going to have to look at all your stitches. Including the ones, you know…” She gestured to the lab coat.

        Jascha looked away from her but nodded. She worked quickly and without comment, then re-tied the coat securely. She gave him a few ibuprofen and went to the sink to get him some water. Jascha, now covered in bandages, relaxed. His wounds hurt less now that they had been treated. When Lin returned with the water, he took the pills too.

        “Alright, bud. You can put on some real clothes now.” She stood back, looking at Jascha now that he was patched up. She smiled at her handiwork briefly before returning her face to stone and facing Victor. “Where is he going to live?”

        “Here. He’s my experiment.” Victor said flatly.

        “Nope, he’s a person. He is going to live somewhere where people are supposed to live.” She took out her phone and flipped it open, dialing a number. “My boyfriend, Brendon, lives in a frat. They’re too dumb to care about his appearance, and they always have extra rooms.”

        “Absolutely not. I forbid it.” Victor tried to grab the phone out of her hand, but she waved him away.

        “Hey, I have a question,” she said into the phone. “Do you guys still have an open single? Yeah? Great. I have a friend who needs a place to stay. Will there be anyone around in, like, half an hour? Cool, and he can let me in? Nice. Love you, and see you tonight.” Lin hung up, and turned to Victor. “He has a place to stay now.”

        “Which frat?” Victor said through his teeth.

        Lin turned to face Jascha. “Do you want me to tell him?” Jascha shook his head fiercely. “Nope. Sorry, Victor. Doctor-patient confidentiality.”

        She bent down and helped Jascha tie up his shoes, which were slightly too small. Now that he was dressed he looked nearly normal, save for the bandages around his head and neck. Jascha looked much happier now, or at least less scared. Victor opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to decide what to say. Lin pulled the hood up over Jascha’s head and patted him gently on the side of the arm.

        “There. Now you look normal enough for the public.” She opened the door to the lab, and gestured for him to leave. Cautiously, he took a few steps over the threshold. She turned back to Victor. “You can see him again once he decides he wants to. Don’t you dare call me to try to ask about where he’s living, because I won’t tell you.”

        “You can’t--He won’t survive without me!” Victor yelled. A few confused people looked at him from the hallway. “Lin!” He watched as the two of them left the science building.


	5. Enter, Ernest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry slaps Victor. Victor goes on a mission. Jascha makes his bed and makes a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Minor content warnings for blood/injury this chapter.  
> We live for comments, so feel free to reach out!

        Fuck Victor. Fuck his faulty experimentation. Fuck his incompetent parenting skills. Fuck. Henry raced back to the apartment as fast as his legs could take him. Once he got home, he thought he vaguely heard Elizabeth or Justine try to talk to him, but he was on a mission and went straight to his room. He found the biggest pair of jeans and button down that he had at the bottom of his dresser and he put it in a canvas bag. What else would he need? Henry grabbed a pair of socks from his dresser and a nice, but slightly too big pair of boat shoes from his closet. He would need a jacket; it got cold at night. He grabbed a puffy bomber jacket that he had stolen from an ex.

        Clothes were under control, what’s next? Henry rummaged through his bathroom. He found toothpaste and a toothbrush (unused, of course, because Henry wasn’t a barbarian). He stole Victor’s brush, a pack of floss, and an unopened stick of deodorant. Those were the essentials, he was pretty sure, what else could he need? Sheets, of course, he needed sheets and a pillow.

        “Hey, Justine?” Henry called downstairs, “What do you give kids to make them happy?”

        “Are you working with children now?” she called back.

        “Ummm...no...kinda?” he replied.

        “I guess we’re just gonna not delve too deep into that. Chocolate, coloring books, normal books, shiny things, whatever their friend has that they don’t, stuffed animals. Basically anything soft and colorful.”

        “Great, thank you,” Henry popped back into his own room and got a bar of chocolate, an old edition of  The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe,  and a small, stuffed lobster. He went back downstairs and raced past Justine.

        “So are we gonna talk about-”

        “Nope nope, will explain later, I’ve got to run,” Henry said and he was already out the door.

        He made it back to the lab in record time and opened the door without knocking first and Victor Frankenstein was surrounded by about three school directories and a bits of shattered glass. His hands were bleeding and staining the pages.

        “What. The. Hell,” Henry dropped the bag of supplies. “What have you done? Why are you hurt?”

        “I need to find where they took him!” He looked up at Henry with manic eyes and yelled, “I need to know!”

        “Okay, okay, we’re going to calm down, okay,” Henry crouched down, avoiding the glass, and took Victor’s bleeding hands into his own. “Breath with me, okay. In through your nose,” he inhaled, “and out through your mouth.”  Victor’s breath was still uneven, but he was breathing, so it was a step in the right direction. “Okay, can you tell me who took Jascha?” Henry asked.

        “Lou sent him to go live with her rattyass boyfriend,” Victor said.

        “Lin?”

        “Yeah, and he’s gonna die because he doesn’t know how to take care of his stitches and he doesn’t understand the importance of antiseptics and no one ever taught him how to brush his teeth or use deodorant and oh god, he’s gonna live in a disgusting frat house and get infected.”

        “Okay, we’re gonna tone it down a little bit,” Henry said. “Lin’s boyfriend, right? We can go ask some people, I’m sure someone around here has to know.”

        Victor got up and put his hand right in a pile of glass. “Henry, you are truly a genius!” He said as he ran outside with blood running down his arm.

        “Victor, Victor!” Henry yelled as he tried to stop him. “That’s a biohazard. You need to stop,”

        “Who is dating Lin? What’s his name? Where does he live?” Victor yelled at innocent undergrads.

        “Ummm, ummm Brendon Lloyd? Umm, in the one by the lake. Please, please stop bleeding. Please,” A terrified bio student said.

        Henry grabbed Victor by his bloody arm and dragged him back to the lab. Once the door was securely closed and locked he slapped Victor square across the face.

        Victor yelled and brought his glass-filled hand to his face. “You hit me!’

        “Victor, I need you to just stop. Okay? I just need you to be quiet and to let me get the glass out of your hand, okay?” Henry stopped holding him. “I’m gonna need you to sit down, okay, cool-” before he could finish his sentence, he grabbed Victor by the front of his shirt and pulled up. “For the love of god and my sanity, do not sit in the glass. Please, Victor. I cannot spend an entire afternoon pulling glass out of your ass.”

        Victor tentatively sat on a plastic stool. “I’m sorry,”

        “Can you please give me your hand?” Henry asked, Victor nodded and gave Henry a pair of tweezers with his uninjured hand. He spent ten minutes making sure every last shard of glass was out. “See, it’s alright,” Henry told a crying Victor. “I’m going to clean it now and it’s going to hurt, but you should have thought of that before you broke a bunch of beakers,” Victor whimpered the entire time, but in the end everything was bandaged and Henry got to hold Victor’s hand.

        “I’m going to go and drop off Jascha’s stuff, okay? Maybe you should go back home and sleep a little bit,” Henry said.

        “I still don’t have clothes,” Victor said, making intense eye contact with the ground.

        “Then take some of mine. Also, I’m giving your hairbrush to Jascha. It’s the least you can offer,” Henry was about to leave the lab, but paused. “Please be home before I am. I’m worried about you.”

        “I will,” he said.

        It was easy for Henry to find the frat house. It was loud and bright, and he was so completely out of his depth. He knocked on the front door.

        “Um, hi. I was wondering if you had someone new move in? I need to give him some stuff,” he asked.

        “Yeah, dude, up the stairs and to the left. Couldn’t miss him,” some jockish frat boy answered.

        “Thanks,” Henry shuffled up the hall trying not to make eye contact with anyone. When he came to Jascha door, already labeled with a cute name tag, he knocked tentatively.  “Jascha, it’s Henry. I have some stuff for you.” The door opened a crack and Henry held out the bag. “May I please come in?” The door opened wider and Henry entered.

        “Henry,” Jascha said, the syllables were still awkwardly broken up, but he sounded less in pain when he spoke.

        “I’ve brought some clothes and sheets, a pillow, some toiletries and like, soft things.” Jascha took the bag in his uninjured hand. “I hope you like it,” Henry wrote his phone number on a slip of paper. “If you need anything, just ask. I’m sure I can help.”

        Jascha held up a blanket and cocked his head. “Help...please.”

        Henry smiled a little bit. “Sure thing!” he said as he helped Jascha make his bed for the first time.

 

* * *

 

        Victor absolutely was not going home. Would it upset Clerval? Yes. Undoubtedly so. Did he care? Eh. He did care enough to not actively do something bad in front of him, but deceiving him behind his back? Well, what Clerval didn’t know, wouldn’t kill him.

        Okay, first order of business, Victor needed to get himself to a Home Depot. That was simple enough. It was alarmingly easy to deceive undergrads into driving you places. All you had to do was imply vaguely that you worked for so-and-so professor or knew the answers to some test question and a horde of rabid biochem babies would literally die to please you. It was honestly concerning. Victor was sure he’d never been so easy to manipulate as a kid. Finding a ride this time around was a bit harder though, just based on the circumstances (he’d scared off every undergrad in the science center by waving his bloody hand in their face and in his current state of unease, it was a reach to say he looked old enough be a grad student). Ultimately, his saving grace came in the form of one Agatha Walker who, for whatever reason, considered frog biology to be the coolest thing since sliced bread. Awesome. As long as she had gas and wouldn’t make him pay, he was golden.

        They rode in a sort of awkward silence punctuated by Agatha asking him about his lab work and Victor crushing her dreams by giving her increasingly depressing stats about the success of women in the field of biomedical engineering.

        “-and even if you make it in the field, you’ll probably be divorced by twenty-five because men are seventy-three percent more likely to be dissatisfied in relationships where the woman earns a higher biweekly salary. Unless, of course, you’re a lesbian. Are you a lesbian?”

        “I, uh,” Agatha glanced over, a pained look of regret spread across her thin face, “I’m not sure?”

        “Ah, well, you’re like sixteen, you’ve got time.”

        “I’m nineteen, actually.” Agatha threw in hesitantly.

        Victor raised a surprised eyebrow. “Really?”

        “Yeah, well...that’s the age most sophomores are.”

        “Huh.” Victor sat back in his seat, trying to wrap his head around the fact that he was talking with a technical adult rather than a teen. “And you still don’t know?”

        “Well, I,” The girl stuttered, an uncomfortable blush spreading across her cheeks, “can- can we change the subject.”

        “Sure, yeah.” Victor paused and took a moment to glance out at the highway. “Did you want to hear the stats for lesbian divorce rates?”

        “No. No, thank you.” Agatha said quickly.

        Victor shrugged and went back to scanning the highway stripmalls.

        “If I might ask?” Agatha piped up carefully. “Why are you going to Home Depot anyway?”

        She was sat all the way forward in her seat, hands clucthed in a death grip on the wheel of her Plymouth as it rattled along the highway. Victor tried to weigh the odds of Agatha having a heart attack and driving them both off the road. “I’m, uh. I’m getting some rope.”

        “Rope?”

        “Yup. And some grappling hooks. A headlamp. A few flares.”

        “Oh.” The undergrad shot him a sideways look. “Is this, uh, for a lab?” She asked unsteadily.

        “More for a, uh, side project?”

        “Okay.” She turned back to the road as the cheap GPS spluttered out instructions to take the next right.

        Victor nodded to himself. Ran through the mental checklist in his head. “Oh and I also need some handcuffs.”

        Agatha paled as she turned to him with wide eyes. “Handcuffs?”

        “Yeah.”

        “Whatever for?”

        “Handcuffing. Obviously. But, now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t think they sell those at Home Depot so I’ll probably need you to drive me to the BDSM store in the next town over. That shouldn’t be too much trouble, right?”

        The undergrad looked vaguely like she might be sick. “I thought this run was for lab supplies?”

        “It is.”

        Agatha breathed a deep, shaky sigh and seemed to internally consider her options. Victor let her, picking at the bandage on his hand as she mulled over whether she wanted to get even more involved in this weird shit.

        “...What are you doing in your lab?” Ah, apparently she did.

        The cards were on Victor’s table now. Tell her the truth, risk getting ratted out to the police or worse ratted out to Lin or even worse getting kicked out of this car in the middle of nowhere, or lie more about frog bio. On the one hand, consequences. On the other, he needed a mood boost right now to distract him from the rage he was feeling over his wrongfully taken creation, and terrorizing undergrads always made him feel better.

        Tough call.

        He glanced over to her, taking in her mousy brown hair, conservative sweater, and bitten lip.

        “I’m raising the dead.”

        She stared ahead for a moment then frowned. “And the school’s giving you funding for that?”

        “Well not officially for the corpse building bit. But yeah.”

        “How much?”

        Victor raised a surprised eyebrow. “About $5,000 a semester. Why?”

        Agatha nodded. She suddenly looked determined. “You know, it really raises your odds of getting into med school if you’ve worked in a lab in undergraduate.”

        “Yeah, I know.” Victor paused. “Where are you going with this?”

        “Well, I,” Agatha gripped the steering wheel tighter, “have you ever considered taking on an assistant?”

        Victor thought it over. An assistant. He’d...never really given that much thought. It would make his life more convenient, having a small underling to run his errands and get him coffee and do his homework and such, all the things he couldn’t be bothered to do. But did he want to share the limelight of his discovery with a little twerp like this one? Oh, and then of course there was the whole ‘everything he’s doing is illegal and dangerous bit and if Agatha is caught working for him, there’s a real possibility that she might be arrested and kicked out of school,’ but that wasn’t as important. What was important was that if he had someone working for him, he could potentially use her to get to his experiment.

        Victor grinned sharply. Perfect.

        “Agatha, my dear, you’ve got yourself a job.”

 

* * *

 

        Jascha closed the door softly behind Henry as he left. It was nice of him to come by and show him how to make his bed. And brush his teeth. And how to use the shower. He was too scared to use the shower tonight, but he liked the idea of one. He was mostly happy that his cuts were all covered and he had a comfortable place to sit and lie down. He loved his bed.

        He was just finishing pulling the comforter off of his bed and wrapping himself up in it when someone knocked at his door. Fear spiked in him, but quickly dissolved.

        “Hey, are you the new dude?” A voice said from behind the door. “I was out earlier so I couldn’t meet you.”

        Jascha got up, dragging his comforter behind him. He opened the door. When he did, he nearly jumped back ten feet, startling both him and the young man in his doorway.

        “V-Victor!” He yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at the man.

        “What? No?” He hurried in. “You can’t say his name here, my man. You’ll blow my cover.” The young man looked scared.

        “Not Victor?” Jascha finally stopped holding his breath.

        ‘Nah, man. He’s my older brother.” The not-Victor smiled at him warmly. Despite the exact same brown eyes and messy dark hair, he was clearly not the same person as Victor. This man was taller and more athletically built, and he had a fresh face with a healthy smattering of freckles. “I’m Ernest. And you?” He held out his hand. Jascha took it carefully.

        “Jascha.”

        “That’s a cool name. How old are you? Which teams are you on?” Ernest sat himself down at the foot of Jascha’s bed. “I’m a soccer boy myself. You look like you could do hockey. LAX maybe.”

        “No teams. Just me.” Jascha stood in front of him awkwardly. Ernest tilted his head to the side like a confused puppy.

        “Cool, cool. Anyway, we share that bathroom,” he pointed to the open bathroom door. “See that closed door? It leads to my room. So we’re sort of roommates.” He smiled up at him. “Yo, you must be from hockey. How the hell did you get so fucked up if you aren’t playing a contact sport?”

        “...Car.” Jascha said finally.

        “A car accident?! Holy fuck, I’m sorry. Listen, if you ever need to talk to someone about it, I’m here for you. I want to go into sports medicine, so if you need any help getting back in shape, I’m your man.”

        Jascha tentatively sat down on the bed next to Ernest. He was still confused by the resemblance to Victor. Save for the freckles, the muscles, and the lack of an overwhelming smell of formaldehyde they looked identical. Ernest sat cross-legged on the bed so that he could face Jascha.

        “So...Do you want to set some roommate/bathroom-mate ground rules? I haven’t had to share with anyone in a while.”

        “...Sure?” Jascha felt proud of how well he was handling the conversation. This Victor was much easier to talk to than the real Victor.

        “Okay, so I tend to wake up, like, super early during the week for workouts. I’ll need the shower at 6AM Monday through Friday, and then again at 9AM when I come back before classes. I sometimes also shower before bed, which is, like, 10PM max. On the weekends I tend to stay up pretty late, so like 3AM. Then I shower at 11AM the next morning. Except on game days. What about you?”

        “Um...When...ever?” He jumped as Ernest grabbed his hand. He felt himself blush a bit in embarrassment about his skin.

        “Dude, you need some fresh bandages. These look like they’re a few hours too old. See? Some of the lymph is leaking through.” He pointed to the small dark spots on the bandage along the wounds. “I have a whole kit from when I fucked up my leg. I’ll grab it.”

        Jascha felt the fear come back. He didn’t really want to be touched anymore today, especially by a Victor-lookalike. He toyed nervously with the hem of his sweater.

        “Okay, my man. I have it all: Neosporin; Aquaphor; Aleve; hot and cold packs; compression bandages. Whatever you want, we got.” He smiled at Jascha like a thrilled salesperson. “How far up does the wound go?”

        Jascha curled in on himself a bit. “...Um...A lot?” His voice was hardly more than a whisper.

        “No prob. Can you take off your sweater? If it hurts to move your arms, I’m happy to help.”

        Jascha managed to get his arms out of the sleeves, but couldn’t get the sweater over his head. Lifting his arms in any way hurt too much. Ernest helped to pull him free. Under the sweater he wore a too-small t-shirt, and Ernest gave an impressed whistle as he saw the wounds on his arms.

        “You are so fucked up. That must have been a hell of a car crash.” He reached out and gave Jascha’s bicep a gentle squeeze. “Nice, man. Good tone. Maybe take it easy on the iron ‘til you’re all better, though.” Jascha gave a confused nod. “Chill if I start changing out bandages?”

        Of all the people who had touched, prodded, and otherwise messed with Jascha that night, Ernest was the least threatening. He made small talk with him, and didn’t seem shocked or interested in his responses or lack thereof. His hands were more or less delicate, similar to his older brothers, but they were much gentler. It hardly hurt at all when Ernest peeled off a bandage or applied new ointment. Pretty soon they were done with all the wounds on his arms.

        “Do you have stuff down there?” Ernest nodded towards his legs. “‘Cuz I’m cool with helping you bandage up, but I also get it if you’d rather do it yourself.”

        Jascha shook his head. “I can do it,” he said quietly.

        “Cool!” A little alarm on Ernest’s watch went off. “Oh, shit, that’s the 9PM alarm. I gotta get to bed. I’ll leave you with my kit, in case you need it tomorrow morning while I’m at practice.” He stood up, and a joint in his right leg popped loudly. He hissed at it slightly. “I call her Britney. Like Britney Spears. It’s leftover from my knee surgery last year. I listened to her a lot during physical therapy.” He walked back towards the bathroom which connected the two rooms. “G’night, Jascha.”

        “G-goodnight.”

 


	6. Handcuffs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry finds a sex shop. Victor is a jerk. Jascha plays a video game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: brief mentions of BDSM
> 
> We love kudos and comments so please reach out!

        “Victor, I’ve helped Jascha moved in. It seems like he’s doing really well,” Henry knocked on Victor’s door and nudged it open when no one answered. He wasn’t in there either. Fuck. Bastard.

 _Have you seen Victor?_ He texted Elizabeth, but didn’t get an immediate response. He went back to his room and paced his bed.

 _Where the fuck?_ He sent Victor, but also received no response. “I just don’t know where he would have gone,” he said out loud to no one in particular.

        Why? Why did he do this to himself? Why on earth did he have to fall so completely for Victor fucking Frankenstein? Him and his stupid dark hair and stupid dark eyes. Ugh! If he showered more than once a week and slept for more than three hours at a time he would be like Adonis incarnate. Hell, he still is, just for tired, squishy poetry students. God. Henry laid back on his bed and thought about how this was just the fucking worst.

        Even worse, the first time he saw him shirtless in their entire 23 years of knowing each other was when we was having a nervous breakdown in the rain. But even so, Henry could not stop thinking about how the fabric clinged to his lithe form. He looked so abject and miserable, but Henry was able to make him feel better. Maybe if he had gone with him instead of just leaving him alone to his own devices, he wouldn’t have just...gone rogue.

 _Srsly. Has anyone seen Victor?_ Henry sent Elizabeth and Justine. He would have just sent it in the group chat, but he didn’t want Victor to know he’s desperate.

 _I heard from Daniel Nugent that he was at the BDSM store_ Justine wrote _I forget what it’s called_

 _It’s eGay_ Elizabeth answered.

 _… How did you know that off the top of your head?_ Justine asked.

        Henry let them argue for a little bit before he cut in, _Do you think he’s still there?_

_Probably. Nugent said he looked pretty enraptured._

_I’ll be back soon._ Henry typed as he grabbed the keys to his car, a dark green Honda Element.

        Henry had many questions. Why would Victor go behind his back when he asked him nicely to return home? Where did Victor get a ride? Why on God’s green earth would he go to a BDSM sex shop? He had known Victor for a long time and he knew that Victor didn’t always take the best care of himself, but he didn’t think that he wanted to be hurt for sexual pleasure. The very thought made Henry squirm. He couldn’t imagine raising a hand to Victor ever, unless he traumatized a bunch of undergrads by bleeding out into their lounge. Then he might, just maybe, find it within him to hit Victor.

        Worse yet, what if Victor enjoyed hurting people. Henry shifted awkwardly in his seat despite being alone in the car. He had such delicate skin and bruises so easily. If Victor ever hit him he might just keel over and die. Victor knew it too, so why? Obviously not for him.Oh god, what else was there at a BDSM sex shop that Victor Frankenstein would be interested in?

        Rope. Victor would love rope. Henry could imagine it clearly now. Victor would get so fixated on the intricacies of the knots and his brow would furrow and he’d get the sweetest concentrating face Henry had ever seen. Oh, if he could kiss the creases from his brow. Henry blushed.

        What if Victor liked handcuffs? That would be just Henry’s cup of tea. He could hold Victor in place and encourage him to sleep and eat and he couldn’t go running off to his goddamned lab. For once, just once, in his life, Victor would need to give up the bits of control he thought he had and just let the people who loves him take care of him. Henry turned the AC up on his car. This was totally fine, he was just tracking Victor down in a sex shop. There was absolutely no reason to freak out or to make it awkward in any way whatsoever.

        What if Victor already had...items when Henry found him? The thought was exciting and terrifying and Henry kinda wanted to die a little bit on the inside. He should not think about things that are completely unattainable. What if he had to talk to Victor about...sex. They had never done that before, not even as crazy hormonal teenagers. Henry didn’t even know Victor’s preferences. He would think, after all this time, that it would have come up at least once or twice. They were, after all, extremely close.

        Victor knew about him, obviously. Henry thought about it for a moment. Regardless, he did kinda radiate hopeless gay poet energy. (The best energy, in his humble opinion.) What on earth would Henry do if Victor found out he was into him? Probably run manic to the lab and never, ever come back to the apartment. He would be so totally and completely unable to cope with the fact that someone he actually knows finds him attractive. He truly wouldn’t be able to disappear into the void forever. One day, he’d have to come back and face the facts that people love him, that Henry loves him, even when he tries to push them away.

        Fuck, Henry missed his turn because was thinking too hard about Victor. Typical. He looked at his brick of a GPS as it screamed at him for not paying attention to the road. Focus. Henry had to focus so he could find the shop. What had Elizabeth said it was called? Gaylord? eSex? He saw a sign out of the corner of his eye. There it was: eGay.

 

* * *

 

        “Okay so rope.”

        “Check.”

        “Handcuffs.”

        “Check.”

        “With the padding?”

        “As you said.” Agatha pulled some extra padding from the shelf and placed it delicately in the cart. Man, having an assistant was awesome. It was like a little servant he didn’t even have to pay because the school was doing it for him. Why hadn’t he thought of this earlier?

        “Okay.” Victor ran through his mental list again. “What else do you think we’ll need? Oh, I wonder if they have leg manacles. Though, that may make things a bit hard.”

        Agatha leaned against the cart and frowned. “Depends on what you’re planning to do, I guess. Do you need to move them once they’re tied up?”

        “Depends on if I decide to use the chloroform or not.”

        “Hm. Don’t know.”

        Victor hummed in agreement with the predicament. “I think we’ll be better off without manacles. Stick to optimum mobility in this case and, if worse comes to worse, I can figure out how to bind the legs with what we have.”

        Victor gestured lazily for Agatha to grab the cart, which she did eagerly, and started down the aisle only to have a flash of something amber catch the corner of his eye. He stopped. “Clerval?”

        The other man stood at the opening of the aisle looking extremely red and at least partially breathless. “Victor!” He quickly walked forward to join Victor and Agatha, practically plastering himself to Victor’s side. “What are you doing here?”

        “What am I doing here? What are _you_ doing here?” Victor returned. Was Clerval into BDSM? That didn’t seem right. He bruised too easily.

        “I’m looking for you. You were _supposed_ to back to the house remember?”

        Victor frowned and made a show of rubbing his chin. “No, I don’t think I remember that. Must have blacked out from the pain while you were talking. Sorry. Here,” Victor hauled a set of chains out of the cart and into Clerval’s hands, “Carry these for me? Thanks.”

        He began to walk down the row, glancing over the butt plugs on either side of him with vague interest. Behind him, he could hear Clerval spluttering.

        “Okay- I- Victor!” With the clanking of shifting metal, Clerval caught up to him and rounded around the front, blocking his path. “Just- What’s going on? Why are you in a sex shop? Why didn’t you listen to me? And, probably most importantly, who is this?!” He gestured loosely to Agatha who waved back.

        “Assistant.” Victor answered.

        “Since when do you have one of those?”

        “Since like an hour ago. Look, they’re really cool. Here,” he dug into his pant’s pocket and produced a ten, “Agatha, go across the street and get me a caramel mocha frappe with twenty shots of espresso.”

        Agatha accepted the money doubtfully. “Isn’t that enough caffeine to, like, stop your heart.”

        “I’m not paying you to ask questions, Agatha.”

        She shrugged and walked away.

        “Victor!” Clerval interrupted, frustration seeping into every nook of his voice. “I’m getting really tired of having to chase after you all the time. Why can’t you just listen to me for once?”

        Victor raised an eyebrow and, for the first time since he’d entered the store, took a moment to drink Cleval in. He looked, well. He looked exhausted. His honey colored hair, normally contained in a perfect natural wave, was messy and slightly fluffy on his head. His eyes were hooded and seemed deeper than usual. Looking into Clerval’s eyes usually made him slightly dizzy (in a totally rational, totally not gay way), but now they just seemed endless. Victor felt an invasion of something resembling guilt prick at the place between his lungs and struggled to rationalize it to his building frustration.

        “Well.” His voice, even without meaning to, had suddenly grown haughty and cold. “No one asked you to follow me around.”

        Clerval blinked. “What do you mean by that?”

        “I mean, I don’t exactly like having someone constantly on my back, trying to parent me. I’m not five, Clerval.”

        “Okay, but-” Clerval bit his tongue for a moment. Victor stared him down, daring him to say more, daring him to say something he could actually fight with. Clerval was always so understanding and patient and kind and, honestly, Victor was sick of it all. He was sick of always being treated like someone’s incompetent child.

        “But what?” Victor snapped, stepping into Clerval’s space and pushing himself up to the other’s height. “What?”

        “Well,” Clerval returned, “just- if you wanted me to stop treating you like a child, maybe you should stop acting like one.”

        “Is that so?”

        “Yeah. Yeah, you know what, it is! I- I’m sick of running around after you, picking up your messes, doing damage control everytime you inevitably mess up!”

        “When have you ever-”

        “All the time!” Clerval yelled, throwing his hands into the air. “I clean up after you all the goddamn time and I never even get a second glance, much less a thank you! You think I don’t have things to do?! You think I don’t have a life outside of you?!”

        “Honestly?” Victor barked. “I know you don’t. You don’t have anything outside of me and, frankly, it’s pathetic. If I’m the child here, you’re nothing more than a lost little puppy trailing on my coat tails, too afraid of being kicked to ever stand up for himself.”

        That did it.

        Clerval froze in place and Victor waited. Waited for the tears that would inevitably come, waited for the walk out, the dramatic exit, the whatever came next. The usual scene. But, this time, Clerval wasn’t crying. His eyes were watery, yes, but also hard, stony in a way Victor didn’t recognize. In a way he didn’t know how to read.

        Clerval said nothing and neither did Victor. Then the other man dropped the chains from his arms.

        “Screw you, Frankenstein.” He said.

        Then he turned and walked away.

        Victor watched him go uneasily, watched him walk to the door, into the parking lot, and step into his car. And it was then with a sudden, painful awareness that he realized.

        Henry wasn’t coming back this time.

 

* * *

 

        Jascha sat awkwardly on the couch, his shoulders brushing both Ernest’s arm and the arm of some other guy. He tried to smile, and act comfortable, but he had utterly no idea what the were watching. It was a cartoon? Maybe? He took a sip of the bottle that had been placed in his hand by Ernest. It was bitter, but he liked that it was fizzy.

        “Dude, why the fuck are we watching this again? We see it like every goddamn month.”

        “Because it is _art_ , you dumb fuck. Shrek is art.”

        Jascha looked to Ernest, who smiled and rolled his eyes. He held a bottle in his hand as well, but in it was a clear liquid that didn’t resemble what Jascha was drinking. Ernest caught his staring, and leaned over.

        “It’s water,” he whispered. “I don’t like to drink during the season.” He sat back. “The boys like to have a “hump day” movie night. It’s usually Shrek.”

        Jascha appreciated the constant explanations from Ernest. It felt good to be able to just sit around and watch other people talk, and it was helping his own speech. That morning he had actually been able to speak to Ernest in full sentences! More importantly, Ernest hadn’t seemed to notice that he had a limited vocabulary. Maybe he had, but was just too polite to say anything. Jascha’s train of thought was interrupted by a buzzing from Ernest’s pocket. 

        “Oh shit, I’ll be right back. It’s baby bro calling.” Ernest got up quickly, with ‘Britney’ popping as he straightened his leg. Jascha, without thinking, got up and followed not too far behind him.

        “...It’s your algebra homework? Listen, my guy, you should really call Vic with this. Oh, you did? It went to voicemail? Yeah that sounds like him. Here, I have a notebook. Read me your problem.”

        Ernest was sitting at the foot of the stairs with a pad of paper and a pen. Since the kitchen was connected to the stairwell, Jascha sat at one of the chairs there. He watched as Ernest wrote out numbers and drew figures.

        “Okay, bud, I think I got it. So you see how there’s an X and a Y? Yeah, it looks nasty but it’s not so bad. Just solve for Y in terms of X, and then boom! Normal math from there on out,” Ernest smiled. Jascha could faintly make out the sound of a child’s voice on the other line. “How’s dad treating you? Have you tried out for any sports teams? You’re a big middle schooler now, so you’ll need to figure out which crowd you’re gonna roll with...Yes, Elizabeth and I are good. We’ll try to get Victor to come home for your birthday...That’s not true; he definitely does love you! He’s just a big weirdo scientist. Now, you should go do your homework and go to bed. I’ll call you again tomorrow. G’night, love you.” He flipped the phone shut. As he stood, he saw Jascha at the kitchen table.

        “Sup? Everything okay?” His brow was furrowed slightly with gentle concern.

        “I’m okay. Are you?” Jascha asked.

        “Oh, yeah. Totally cool. My baby brother needed help with math.”

        “Math?”

        “Algebra. It’s kind of a bitch until you get a feel for it. Took me until freshman year to figure out what the hell a cosine was. That was bad. But! Here I am. Made it through calculus one.” He pulled up a chair beside Jascha. “Not a fan of Shrek?”

        Jascha shook his head. He had no idea what Shrek was, let alone if he liked it. He wasn’t the hugest fan of the noise that the other guys were making in their debate about it, though, so he figured he probably didn’t like it.

        “I’m lukewarm on it myself. I saw it too many times when it came out, and now I’m sick of it. It was fun the first seven times.” Ernest drank more of his concealed water. “Do you like video games? I just bought Silent Hill 4 off one of my friends, and I’m too much of a coward to play it alone.”

        Jascha had even less of an idea what _Silent Hill_ was, but he liked the idea of escaping the crowd, so he nodded. Ernest flashed him a brilliant grin and the two went upstairs to his room. In it there was a small TV hooked up to a gaming system, as well as a slew of posters from various concerts, games, and what he assumed were movies. His bed was unmade, though the floor was tidy. His bookcase was filled with books on physical therapy and sports medicine, as well as some magazines and soccer rulebooks. There were also several trophies of varying sizes lined up along his dresser. On his bedside table was a photo of himself, Victor, a young woman, and a very small version of Victor.

        “Welcome to my abode,” Ernest said playfully. He pulled over two bean bag chairs so they were facing the TV and handed Jascha a controller. He put the game in the console and turned on the TV screen. “Have you ever played a Silent Hill game?”

        “Nope,” Jascha said. “Never.”

        “Me either. We can suck at it together. I only just got the PS2 also, so it’s gonna be rough,” he smiled sympathetically at Jascha. “Also, fair warning, I am a huge pussy when it comes to jump scares.”

        Jascha nodded, and wondered what the word “pussy” meant. He was quickly distracted by the screen, which showed a disembodied woman’s face looking over what appeared to be a hospital. He swallowed hard.


	7. Coming Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry gets support. Victor looks for a reaction. Jascha learns a new word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: internalized homophobia
> 
> We love comments and kudos so don't be shy to speak up!!

        Henry cried the entire car ride back to campus. He had tried, in vain, to pull himself together in the parking lot, but he abandoned all hope and just entered his home with tears still on his cheeks. He pushed open the door to see Justine and Elizabeth making out on the couch.

        “Don’t you guys have a room?” Henry tried to joke, but the words got all caught in his throat.

        “We weren't expecting you to just- oh my god,” Elizabeth paused, “What happened to you?”

        “It’s nothing. It’s really, really nothing,” Henry sobbed as he wiped at his eyes with the hem of his sleeve. “I’m just upset.”

        “Yeah, no shit. Is everything alright with Victor? I knew you were worried,” Justine and Elizabeth had long since disentangled themselves from each other and had made room for Henry between them.

        “I...yeah. No, it’s not alright, but he’ll be fine. And I mean, he’s an adult and all that, so I can’t really...tell him what to do...but he doesn’t really get...what I’m trying to say,” Henry gave up and pressed his face into Justine’s shoulder. She rubbed his hair empathetically as she shot a look to Elizabeth.

        “It’s not your job to make sure he doesn’t crash and burn,” Justine said, “Honestly, god himself couldn’t make sure that Victor didn’t crash and burn.”

        “It’s not just that,” Henry had resumed his full-blown sobbing. “He’s right. I am nothing without him. I can barely do anything without thinking about him.”

        “Henry,” Elizabeth started, “There are a ton of things that you do that have nothing to do with Victor Frankenstein. Us. A thesis...other friends I’m sure.”

        “You don’t need Victor to have a happy, fulfilling life,” Justine cut in, “Relationships of all kinds are built on mutual love and understanding. If Victor isn’t willing to work on his half of the relationship, be it romantic or platonic, then fuck him”

        “In any case, Victor will quickly realize it is him who can’t function without you, not the other way around. He’s kind of a bitch,” Elizabeth said with a shrug.

        “That’s bullshit. He has an assistant now,” Henry sat up straight and rubbed the tears from his glasses.

        “An assistant?” Elizabeth said as she turned to fully face Henry, hands on her hips. “Who would do that to themselves? Is he secretly holding an undergrad hostage with like, blackmail or something?”

        “She’s like, really weird,” Henry sighed.

        “Well, Victor hasn’t so much as eaten or slept without your help in the past, say, four years, so I’m not quite sure how he thinks he’s gonna function as a human now,” Elizabeth said as she twirled a lock of her blond hair around her finger.

        “I know it’s going to hurt, Henry, but you need to let Victor make his own mistakes. You had some very similar situations when you were younger, but you figured it out through trial and error. He will too,” Justine hugged Henry. “It’s rough, but it’s the best thing to do for him.”

        “It’s true,’ Elizabeth said, “He might be the most insufferable bitch in this entire school, but he still does care about you. I can’t imagine whatever happened in that sex shop will change that for ever and ever.”

        “It does sound pretty ridiculous, huh,” Henry gave a half-hearted laugh.

        “God, you probably made him feel a single emotion and he just couldn’t take it anymore,” Elizabeth laughed.

        “Hey look at me, I’m Victor Frankenstein. I’m a scientist so feelings don’t apply to me. Shall we care to vivisect something?” Justine mocked.

        “Point being, as I’ve been saying, over dramatic bitch,” she said gesturing to Justine.

        “What do I do? Should I just apologize to him?” Henry asked.

        “What the fuck, no!” Elizabeth yelled, “He needs to learn how his actions have consequences and how those consequences effects the people he loves, and he does feel that emotion sometimes.”

        “I think,” said Justine, “That part of him knows that you will be there no matter what, so he gets to practice this reaction in a safe environment. Now, he will quickly find that this is not an appropriate reaction to anyone, ever, but he’ll figure it out.”

        “I’ve just missed him so much,” Henry said as he pushed his hair from his eyes.

        “Well, now you get to practice not missing him anymore,” said Justine. “It will be good for you to detach a little bit too. You only have so much caring to go around, might as well give it to the people who appreciate it.”

        “Yeah, yeah I should,” Henry said as he stood up and stretched the muscles in his shoulders. “I think I’m going to go write in my room. It’ll help, I think, to maybe get some of these feelings out somewhere that I can burn.”

        “You are so right,” Elizabeth said as she gathered some of the coffee mugs that were on the table. “Invite me to the bonfire,”

        “Will do,” Henry said and he left to go lay in his bed in abject misery. Was Victor able to feel love, probably. He sure did talk about loving science a lot. Could he love Henry? He desperately wanted to think so. He knew, deep down, that there were many things worth loving about him, but it didn’t really matter for Victor, now did it. No amount of care or compassion or sensitivity was going to make a difference to a selfish man who only cared about his precious science.

Justine and Elizabeth were right. Just a few days separated from Victor would do wonders for him. Just a few days of peace and quiet and he could focus on his own work. Henry had been giving it some thought and he still could not figure out why Victor was in the sex shop in the first place. It certainly wasn’t for him. The only other logical thing would be...oh, that bitch. He could not just kidnap Jascha. He was his own unique person. It’s not like Victor or Agatha had the sheer muscle mass to pull it off anyway. He was just going to get himself hurt. But that was Victor’s problem, so why should Henry care?

        Henry actually did care, a lot, but he could compartmentalize. For once in his life, this was Victor’s problem to fix. After perhaps an hour, Henry fell into fretful sleep. He dreamed like he normally did, except all his dreams were of Victor and the terrible things that could happen to him. Sometime in the middle of the night, Henry was hazily awoken by someone, Victor, pounding on his door saying something about not being able to go to bed.

        “I’m trying to sleep, Frankenstein,” and he didn’t move to help him.

 

* * *

 

        Victor paced his room, rounding each corner and straightening out to form a perfect square through the cramped quarters. As he walked, he kept his ear trained to the door, to the space across the hall where Clerval’s room was. It was only six nineteen am so Clerval wouldn’t have left for classes yet, but he needed to be prepared. It had been two and a half weeks since the fight which was officially the longest Clerval had ever gone without talking to him since they were in second grade. He had to crack soon. He would wake up today and realize just how lonely he was without Victor in his life and then everything would go back to normal.

        He hesitated in his step. Why was he so anxious? He wasn’t usually this anxious. He wasn’t usually this prone to pacing, either. Running, yes, bursts of energy, but pacing? And it wasn’t just that. He felt hot all over, boiling in his cheeks and through his head, but cold in the fingers. His arms felt like unsolidified jello shots one moment and seemed to seize up the next. And then there was his chest which ached like someone was pounding the space between his ribs every time he drew breath.

        It was six twenty-five am and Clerval still hadn’t emerged.

        He stopped his pacing and sat down on the bed as a fit of violence assaulted his chest. He gasped for breath for a moment before holding it. Count to five and...he breathed in and found he was able to. Barely. It still hurt, a stabbing sensation through his lungs.

        What was going on with him?

        Victor paused and tried to think through possible reasons for this sudden sickness. When had he last eaten? He couldn't quite remember. Maybe it was that. Or maybe it was dehydration. Had he inhaled any chemicals in the labs the last few days? He hadn’t gone to class in the last week so probably not that. Maybe it was cancer.

        Victor squeezed his eyes shut and battled another fit of absent breath. Okay. Okay, this was ridiculous. It was six thirty-seven am and he needed to start his day. This was supposed to _the day_ too. The one where he got his experiment back by whatever means necessary. Jascha had been without him for so long now, Victor wouldn’t be surprised if he was already too sick to stand. So many infections were likely outside of sterilized environments and there was no way anyone in the moldy pit of a gym locker was properly cleaning his wounds. God, he probably had gangrene by now! Victor honestly doubted he’d have to take Jascha by force. Any rational man would see that Victor’s care was the better option to living with brain dead, hypersexual jocks. Victor would be the knight in shining armor, showing up to pull Jascha from the house, nursing him back to health in his lab. The experiment would never want to leave him again after that. Not that it had wanted to leave to begin with, fucking Lin. No, he’d bring Jascha home and the two of them would do so much for science, it would be unbelievable.

        Even if it meant shunning Clerval’s company. Even if it meant never having friends again. Even if it meant giving up everything, everything he relied on and wanted and loved, he’d do it in a heartbeat. What did any of them know anyway? What did Clerval know that he didn’t? Nothing. For all poets tried to understand the world, they figured out nothing. Henry just couldn’t understand and Victor didn’t have the time to make him.

        He was getting his experiment back or he was going to die trying.

        Six fifty-seven am.

        Victor took as deep a breath as he could manage and stood. Almost immediately his vision went spotty and black, blood rushing to his head in a wave. He felt his knees wanting to buckle and caught the edge of his bed to keep himself upright. It was okay, he was okay, okay, okay, okay.

        ‘It’s okay.’

        The voice in his head sounded a lot like Henry’s.

        Victor forced himself straighter and followed the wall to his door. He reached for the knob, but at that exact moment, heard Clerval emerge from his room. He was talking to someone. Victor hesitated and pressed his ear to the chipped wood door. “Yeah…” Henry’s voice floated in and out with the tide of Victor’s slightly labored breathing, “love to…lunch...plans...maybe we could study...” Victor pressed against the door harder. “Yeah, that sounds perfect! Okay, I’ll see you later, Robert!” Footsteps down the stairs.

        Robert?

        Victor frowned and tried to think of Roberts they both knew. Or Roberts that he knew that Clerval knew. The only one he could think of was...oh. Clerval was getting lunch with Robert Walton? Victor pulled back from the door and stared at it, tracing the flaking green paint into blurry patterns. That was...well…

        Victor shook his head causing another wave of black to invade his vision. No, that was bastardous. That was a betrayal. Clerval knew he couldn’t stand to be around Walton and his uptight attitude and his weird overly passionate journaling. Who carried their diary everywhere anyways? It was weird. Walton was weird.

        He and Clerval deserved each other.

        Riding the sudden wave of energy spite had gifted him, Victor flung his door wide and stepped out. He walked downstairs into the kitchen with as much purpose as he could muster, making a deliberate point of not meeting Clerval’s eyes as the other froze in place.

        “Clerval.” Victor said coldly as he brushed past Clerval and moved over to the coffee machine.

        “Frankenstein.” Clerval answered. Victor latched onto the voice, trying to study it for any hint of remorse or the usual guilt Clerval seemed to carry everywhere, but nothing. Clerval’s voice was impassive.

        Okay, so they were still doing the silent treatment. Fine by him. It wasn’t like he needed Clerval. Victor refused to turn around as he shoveled coffee grounds into the maker.

        He heard Clerval continue to eat his toast, stand up, and place the plates in the sink. Out of the corner of his eye, Victor could see the other man pause by the kitchen doorway to fix his hair in the microwave reflection. His hair was wavy again, in that careless, effortless way that meant Clerval was sleeping. Victor felt bile rise in his throat and forced it down with coffee.

        “Hey.” Victor whipped around to face Clerval, a million things he wanted to say already resting on his tongue, but the other man only raised an eyebrow to him. “I’m going to need the bathroom tonight.”

        “Oh.” Victor hesiated. “I mean. Of course you would, Narcissus. Need to perm your hair or something?”

        Clerval didn’t react. (Why wasn’t Clerval reacting? He had always been so bad at hiding his emotions. Maybe Victor just couldn’t read them between the pounding in his head?)

        “I have stuff I need to do tonight and I’d like to be able to shower beforehand. Just letting you know.”

        “Yeah.” Victor took a labored sip of his coffee. “Well. I won’t be home anyway. Long night ahead at the lab. I probably won’t even be sleeping.”

        He waited. Clerval nodded. “Sounds good.” He turned and left the kitchen.

        Victor watched him go, one hand still in a vice around the coffee mug. The door to the apartment clicked. Outside the window a car engine hummed.

        Seven forty-nine am. Elizabeth was working her morning shift at Starbucks. Justine was nannying in the upper side. She’d been gone all night. And Clerval had just left. The neighbors would be off to work too.

        Victor was alone in the house. He was alone and no one could see him or hear him or examine him or judge him or pick him apart. Which was the only reason he allowed himself to curl up on the floor and finally release the scream he’d felt building in the lining of his lungs for the last four days.

        Ironically enough, though, the release only made him feel more sick.

 

* * *

 

        “It’s just like, I don’t know. I don’t get why she’d say that to me, you know?” Ernest was sprawled at the foot of Jascha’s bed, watching him mess around with a Gameboy. “And what if the other guys hear what she called me?”

        Jascha was trying to follow along. Ernest was clearly upset, and he felt vaguely aware that it was a big deal to get called the name that his girlfriend had called him at the party. So much so that Ernest wouldn’t repeat it to him. Just the “F-word,” and Jascha knew at this point that he didn’t mean ‘fuck.’

        He’d been at the frat for about a week now, and he felt like he was starting to understand the lives and concerns of his housemates. He’d been drunk for the first time, and he’d witnessed a frat party. He got to second base with a girl before he’d freaked out and found a way to escape. For all intents and purposes, he was just another guy. He and Ernest spent most of their time together, since they were the only two who weren’t big on drunken sex and parties. Most nights Jascha either kept him company while he did his evening stretches and homework, or played video games with him. His wounds were healing nicely, and he was starting to gain greater flexibility in his joints.

        He hadn’t seen Ernest be anything other than content until now. It was strange to see him downcast, and he quite frankly didn’t understand what he was talking about. He hit a stopping point in his game and shut the device off, looking at Ernest.

        “What’s the f-word?” Jascha asked. Ernest looked like he was in pain.

        “It’s, like, you know. A name.” Ernest draped an arm across his eyes. “It’s for, you know. Guys who screw guys.” His cheeks flushed.

        “Is that bad?” Jascha asked. He was still pretty lost.

        “I mean, not really. Not for me, anyway. My brother’s friend is gay and that’s chill.” Ernest sat up and looked at Jascha. “It’s just that, like, I’m super not. I’m the captain of the soccer team. I’m not into art, or poetry, or any of that other gay shit, you feel?”

        Jascha nodded. “So what’s the problem?”

        “It’s the other guys,” he drew closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “If the rumor gets out that I’m a queer, then it’s over. I’ll get kicked off my team; out of the frat. I’ll lose everyone.” He ran his hands through his scruffy hair nervously. “It’d kill me to lose the team.”

        “Just tell them it isn’t true?” Said Jascha.

        “I would. But it’s like, other stuff too.” Ernest turned red.

        “What stuff?”

        “Like, past stuff. That she said. And they might use against me.” Ernest couldn’t look at him. “Like, sex stuff.”

        “Sex stuff?”

        “She said I was, you know...Cuz I had trouble, you know, being into her. And she’s like, suuuper hot so there’s no reason why I wouldn’t be.” Ernest picked at his nails.

        “Maybe you just didn’t like her?” Jascha offered.

        “No, I did. She was super nice to me and shit before we started dating, so I was super pumped when she said she liked me. And we, like, did other stuff fine. It’s just...you know. Trouble happened when we tried to go all the way.” Ernest looked at Jascha.

        “I don’t think I follow,” Jascha said.

        “Dude, are you a virgin?” Ernest looked confused. “How can you be a virgin? Girls would fucking eat you alive if you’d let them.”

        Jascha blushed and shook his head.

        “Aw, no worries! It’s okay. I can hook you up with someone if you want.” Ernest’s smile faded quickly. “Do you think I should talk to her?”

        “About being gay?” Jascha asked.

        “Nah, dude, I’m straight. I meant, like, about that night. And about not telling other people about it,” He paused. “I bet it was just nerves, you know? Like, performance anxiety.”

        Ernest looked at Jascha as if he were expecting advice or consolation. Jascha stared back at him blankly. He wasn’t really sure what to say, or even how to say it, since he couldn’t really recall how sex or romance worked. The more time he spent with his body, the more he could remember, but something about having flesh he didn’t recognize made it harder to access more intimate memories from before his death. He knew enough to hope that he hadn’t died a virgin.

        “Are you okay?” Ernest caught his attention. “You zoned out for a minute,” he hesitated, and looked worried. “Oh shit, did I make you uncomfortable? I totally get it if you’re, like, not okay with talking about gay stuff. I just assumed you were, since, like…” He trailed off.

        “Since what?”

        “You, like, don’t hang out with girls. And you get quiet-or quieter-when the guys talk about them.” He waited a moment. “I’m really, really sorry. I promise I’m not gay, so don’t be mad?”

        Jascha shook his head and placed a hand on Ernest’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I wouldn’t be mad.” A pause. “Even if you were gay, I’d still want to be friends.”

        Ernest’s face lit up. “Oh, cool!” He laughed nervously. “Man, I was really worried.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “I’d want to be friends with you, too. Even if you were, you know…”

        Jascha nodded. He knew at this point what Ernest meant, and he appreciated that their friendship was solid despite being so young. He’d even stopped seeing Victor’s face when he looked at him: He’d noticed enough small differences, like the lighter brown of his eyes and the slight curl to his hair, that the similarities seemed less important. Now when he looked at the family photo next to his bed he saw Ernest, Victor, and a small Ernest. The blond girl was still a mystery.

        “Do you wanna watch something?” Ernest asked. “I stressed myself out so bad that I don’t think I’m gonna be able to focus on my physiology homework.”

        “Sure,” said Jascha. “So long as it’s not Shrek.” He smiled as Ernest laughed.

        “No way, dude. Want to watch a horror movie?”

        “Aren’t you stressed?” Jascha raised an eyebrow.

        “Yeah. But it could be fun.” Ernest smiled. “C’mon. I’ve never watched one, and apparently they’re a good way to get girls. Tony gave me the Blair Witch Project.”

        “Okay. But if you have nightmares you can’t blame me.”

        Jascha followed Ernest into his room, where the TV was. They pulled the quilt off his bed, and fashioned a makeshift couch out of the bean bag chairs. It was a cold day, and the frat had a lot of drafts, so they shared the quilt.

 

        They made it through the movie, more or less. By the end of it Ernest was shaking, and had declared that he was never walking alone in the woods ever again. Jascha felt okay. Compared to his own recent experience with horror, a crazy lady in the woods felt sane. He thought Victor was scarier.

        He had been asleep for maybe two hours when he heard a faint knocking at his door, via the bathroom. He got up, and opened it to find Ernest. His hair was a messy, and he looked a bit embarrassed. His pajamas consisted of boxers with a little yellow semi-circle creature eating multi-colored dots, and a t-shirt that said “I survived rush week.” He was carrying his quilt.

        “Hey, man,” he said.

        “Hey?” Jascha was confused.

        “So, like, horror movies? Turns out they freak me out,” he said, without making direct eye contact.

        “Okay,” Jascha was tired, and confused.

        “Is it chill if I sleep on your floor?” Ernest asked. “Totally cool if not.”

        “That’s okay,” Jascha opened the door wider, letting Ernest in. He grabbed an extra pillow from his bed and put it down on the carpet next to his bed. Ernest stood over the pillow for a minute.

        “I feel like a little kid,” he said. “That movie wasn’t even that bad…”

        Jascha shrugged. “It was pretty scary,” he lied. He wanted Ernest to feel better.

        Ernest smiled a bit and lay on the floor, pulling the quilt tightly around him. Jascha resumed his place on his bed, propping his head up on his arm.

        “Do you want the lights on?” He asked.

        “Nah, you can shut them off,” Ernest said hesitantly. Jascha flicked off the bedside lamp, and for a moment there was silence. “Wait, no, please turn them back on. God! I’m such a pussy.”

        Jascha turned on the lights. “Goodnight, Ernest.”

        “G’night.”

 

 

 

 


	8. Bad Dates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry doesn't like bondage. Victor stages a heist. Jascha goes to a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Misunderstandings about sex, internalized homophobia, attempts at hazing

        Robert Walton was weird. Like, really, really weird. And not in the way Victor was charmingly strange and eccentric. No, Robert Walton was just too much. Henry found it absolutely impossible to make eye contact with him so he looked at his thesis notes.

        “And so that’s why the Navy is gonna be like... super rad, yo,” Walton said with his boots propped up on the table.

        “Mm hmm, that’s very interesting,” Henry said, raising his eyebrows.

        “Like, dude. I’m just gonna like...go and explore the world and like...protect people...on a boat,” Walton’s eyes were crazed, just absolutely manic.

        “On a boat?” Henry asked.

        “Dude, that’s like...what the Navy is. Boats.”

        “Boats,” he repeated.

        “Yeah man, boats,” Walton’s eyes had not chilled out at all. “Do you want me to show you how to tie knots. I can tie a lot of knots.”

        “I’d rather-”

        “I can show you some very interesting things you can do with knots,” Walton grabbed Henry’s wrist and he dropped his stack of Whitman poems all over the floor.

        “I have to-”

        “You have to come look at knots with me. You have to. No one’s ever been interested in my knots before.”

        “Bobby-”

        “Knots!” and Robert Walton pulled a sputtering Henry to his room.

        Robert Walton’s room was abysmal. There were anchors everywhere and knots framed behind glass. Everything was neatly put in place and everything white looked like it had been bleached about two times a day. It smelled like cotton and clorox and axe body spray.

        “Look at this one!” Walton threw Henry’s squishy, poet’s body on his bed. Soon, he had him pinned him between his thighs holding a boxed knot above his eyes. “Look at this one. I’ve completely forgot what it’s called, but isn’t it pretty?”

        “Yeah, yeah, it’s pretty I-”

        “Can I tie up your hands? It’s such a pretty knot and you can chain it together and it looks really, really pretty,”

        “Like, like a bracelet right? Like a piece of jewelry right?” Now Henry’s eyes started to look manic.

        “It’s okay! It’s super duper cool. I just need you to take off your shirt,” Walton held Henry’s face between his hands.

        “Take off my...what?” Henry asked, hands flailing uselessly above his head.

        “You’re shirt. It’s pretty, but all my ropes are white and they won’t show up well on your shirt.”

        “Ummm...ummmm my skin’s pretty white too,” Henry was panicking. Like really panicking. “Are you trying to have sex with me?”

        “What? Sex? What? No,” Walton did not move an inch. “I’m not gay, my man.”

        “But… we were...on a date. You used the words date,” Henry was 100% positive he had entered the twilight zone and some alien was going to try and kidnap him or something.

        “Yeah, we were on a date, but not, like, in a gay way,” Walton explained.

        “You knelt and kissed my hand,” Henry still flailed. “What the heck is even going on here.”

        “My man, don’t be weird. It’s just two guys being dudes and going on a date in a totally heterosexual way.”

        “You are straddling my dick with your thighs, there’s nothing heterosexual about that. Absolutely nothing,” Henry had started to yell, his voice rising higher with the stress.

        “What? You don’t normally want to have intense amounts of physical touching with your friends?” Walton asked, genuine confusion crossing his stupid, stupid face.

        “Well yean, I do, because I have one friend and I’m gay,” Henry tried to push back against Walton’s shoulders but he didn’t budge because he was 270lbs of solid, Navy muscle.

        “You’re...you know...gay,” Walton’s voice got very soft.

        “Yes. Yes. Okay, since apparently we needed to get that straightened out, yes. I am. Are you going to hit me now?” Henry braced.

        “What? No. It’s just...I’ve never met one of them before,” Walton said, resting his hands on Henry’s chest.

        “I’m surprised, considering you ask men on dates,” Henry snapped.

        “What does it feel like?” Walton asked, his eyes the size of saucers.

        “What does what feel like?”

        “Sex."

        “I...well...I… I don’t...I...Please...I, okay,” Henry stammered into the crook of his elbow. He could feel all of the blood in his body rising to his face. “I’m not quite sure...I”

        “Oh my god, dude, are you a virgin? But you’re like, super pretty and into poetry, and like...freckles,” Walton put his face uncomfortably close to Henry’s.

        “I just...I have a person...and...I...really like...him…” This was it. This was the night Henry Clerval was going to drop dead. Victor had reanimated and abandoned the dead and he wasn’t this stressful.

        “My man, that’s so rough. I’m like, super terrified of losing one of my buddies to the Air Force. Like, the Navy’s cool and all, but I want to be able to see him again. He’s got like, the sweetest smile.”

        “I..that’s really nice, Bobby,” Henry tried to gain some of his composure back. “Can you please, please let me up. I really need to go work on my thesis.”

        “Oh, yeah, sure thing my man,” Walton released Henry and tossed him a bottle of gatorade. “You should bring your guy around sometime and you can meet mine. It was super chill hanging out with you.” He waved, as bubbly as ever, when Henry left the room.

        As soon as he was outside, Henry made a beeline for the nearest tree and collapsed underneath it. He was breathing heavily and stressed out tears were beginning to form in his eyes.

        Just think, he needed to think; about grass and strangers and boats at sea. He needed oaks, Louisiana, and the open road. He need… twenty youths bathing in a river. No. This was too much. It was far, far too much. He’s gonna cry. He knows it. He’s about to have a breakdown. A complete breakdown. But he can stop it if he thinks about birds and nature and birdsong.

        Birdsong is all he hears and it’s loud. It is so, so loud. And the sun is so bright and there are so many people. And there are people looking at him. There were so many people looking at him with their yellow eyes. Why couldn’t he just become poetry and dissolve into the air? Why did he have to have a form, a form that was in distress? He wanted to go away. He wanted to disappear and never, ever be seen again. He could just vanish and never have to deal with another breathing soul on this planet. And Why? Why were there people watching him? Why?

 

* * *

 

        Victor had thrown up five times in the last three hours but it was fine. Victor was running a fever of 99.5 but that was fine too. Victor kept getting dark spots which would dance across his vision and obscure his sense of reality for minutes on end and that was...less fine. But manageable. All this was manageable. He was a scientist, for crying out loud. He’d brought someone back from the dead; literally created life; he wasn’t about to be taken out by the common cold like some elderly man collapsing in a Costco.

        Victor could handle this. Victor could handle anything. Dr. Frankenstein could handle anything.

        Agatha meet him at the door, looking for all the world like someone’s overly nervous pomeranian. Victor raised an eyebrow as he took in her bright pink crop top, jean skirt, and the copious hair ties littering her head.

        “We’re going to a frat party, Agatha.” Victor said. “Not the set of _Lizzie McGuire_.”

        “I know.” The undergrad snapped, blushing. “This is in style.”

        “You look like you lost a fight with a weedwacker.”

        “Well at least I don’t look like scene kid.”

        Victor straightened his perhaps too tight striped vest indignantly. “C’mon. I need your help carrying things to the car.”

        Agatha sighed, but followed him upstairs. He held open the bedroom door for her and set about gathering up the duffle bag. Agatha followed his lead, but hesitated when she went to shoulder the supplies. “Are you...okay?”

        “Of course, I am.” Victor didn’t meet her eyes as he scanned the room over quickly for any items they may have left behind.

        “Cause you look, well. You look a bit dead on your feet.”

        “I always look dead on my feet.” Victor snatched up a misplaced pair of handcuffs and tossed them in the bag on Agatha’s shoulder. He grinned. “I told you I was raising the dead, yeah? The first person I raised was me.”

        Agatha searched his face, looking torn between scepticism and wonder. “Really?” She finally asked.

        “No not really. This is science, Agatha, not magic. Now.” Victor started for the stairs. “Let’s go kidnap a living corpse.”

        They rode over in a relative kind of silence with Agatha multitasking between managing the warbling GPS and trying to talk to him about ‘this awesome band called Smashmouth, have you heard of them’ while Victor nodded along vaguely and focused on not being carsick.

        Ultimately, they heard the party before they saw it. It centered around the frat where Lin had sent Jascha, but seemed to involve at least two other fraternities/sororities, if the pure mass of bodies mulling about on the lawn was any indication. Victor wrinkled his nose as he took in half naked men laughing on the spacious front porch and the completely not inconspicuous couple looking to hit third base in the bare bushes. Even from the car, the smell of alcohol was overpowering, and it took everything in him not to lose his...well, he supposed he only had bile left at this point. Victor exhaled to clear his nose and turned to Agatha.

        “Remember the plan?”

        Agatha ripped her eyes away from the shirtless boy doing a kegstand in the driveway and nodded. “Watch your back, be ready to play get away.”

        “And don’t get distracted by them.” Victor jabbed a thumb at the whole house. “You’re a biochem major, Agatha. You can do better.”

        “Yeah…” She sighed, a bit mournfully, as the kegstand boy stood straight and went to high five his bro.

        Victor opened his mouth to say something else, but quickly realized he had no idea what advice to give to horny teen girls and vacated the car. Picking up the over-packed duffle from the trunk was difficult and he almost listed sideways while adjusting it. When he managed to get it on his shoulder proper, however, he was golden. “Okay.” He muttered to himself, glancing to the big house before him. “I can do this.”

        He wasn’t sure his voice was very convincing.

        The interior of the house was overwhelmingly loud, to the point where even Victor, who had had a full blown screaming meltdown not ten hours ago, was impressed with the volume. Everywhere he looked, the walls were covered in sports memorabilia and haphazard dart boards, obviously more decoration that anything if the holes in the wall were anything to go off of. The alcohol stench here was a thousand times more intense. Victor could feel his nose go numb to it within minutes of entering the room. And the people, god. Huge and muscular and not even in the right way as in well toned, but in the weird, overly aggressive bodybuilder way, except for every girl, who was petite and bottle-blond beautiful. It was like walking into one of Ernest’s parties from high school, but infinitely more uncomfortable because Victor couldn’t even escape to his room and call Clerval to cry about it.

        Crap, he’d thought of Clerval again. Victor rubbed his face aggressively. Focus, focus. He needed to find the experiment’s room.

        Victor stepped forward into the mass of living, breathing, sweating bodies and began to push his way through. Easier in theory than in practice, of course. Within seconds, his slender form was being jostled this way and that, pushed through the crowd of dancing, grinding bodies. He swore and tried to find an exit only to crash into someone. His duffle bag went crashing to the floor, popping the zipper and spewing chains and red rope across the makeshift dance floor.

        “OMG, I’m so sorry!” The woman who had collided with him dropped to her knees with Victor, both scrambling to rescue the supplies from being crushed by sneakers and high heels. “Here, I-” She snacthed up the bag and cut a path out of the crowd, which Victor gratefully utilized. If he was feeling light headed before, he was on the edge of a blackout now.

        The woman glanced around, apparently searching for an quiet spot to drop the stuff, before settling on a bathroom. Victor more felt than saw himself being dragged in behind her and collapsed on the toilet as soon as she snapped the door closed. “Oh boy,” the blond laughed, “it’s getting nuts out there, huh?”

        Victor nodded vaguely, trying to clear his head of the sudden pounding noise which had overtaken it.

        “I’m Tammy by the way.” The girl dropped the duffle at his feet.

        Victor looked at it dully then back up at her. “Nice to meet you.”

        “Yeah, you too.” Tammy paused for a moment. “Hey, do I know you? You look familiar.”

        “Are you pre-med?”

        “Nope.”

        “Then no, I highly doubt it.”

        “Huh.” Tammy tapped her chin and scoured his form in a way that made Victor want to turn into a cockroach and scurry under the door. “Oh!” Tammy snapped her fingers. “You look like Ernest! That’s it!”

        “Ernest? Ernest Frankenstein?” Victor shifted on the toilet seat. “How do you know him?”

        “Oh, he’s in the host frat.”

        Ernest? Frat? What? “He is?” Victor tried to keep the surprise out of his voice. His own brother was _in_ the frat house that was keeping his experiment held hostage and he hadn’t even called him. That brat!

        “Oh, yeah, sweetest guy. He dated one of my sorority sisters for a while.” Tammy frowned. “How do you know him?”

        “He’s my…” Victor trailed. He’d almost forgotten, Ernest hated being associated with him. “He’s...he was in my intro bio class.”

        “You two look very similar.”

        “Yeah, well.” Victor tried for a smile. “Common face, I guess.”

        Tammy shrugged and aimed a kick at the bag on the floor between them. They both froze as an unfortunately painted pair of bed restraints spilled out. “Oh!” Tammy’s voice had gone up a pitch. “You, uh. You came prepared.”

        “Those aren’t for me!” Victor rushed. “They’re-” God, how was he supposed to finish that sentence. They’re for the huge, scar covered corpse living in the spare room of my little brother’s frat? “For...someone else.”

        “Oh.” Tammy looked him over and he _really_ didn’t like the look in her eyes this time. “Did you, uh,” she curled a lock of hair around her finger, “have anyone in mind?”

        Abort. Abort, abort, abort! What was even going on? Women weren’t supposed to find him attractive? He looked like a dead body someone fished out of the Ohio River on a _good_ day. Tammy leaned into him and Victor scrambled to find a way to make himself smaller.

        “They’re, uh,” his voice was small and weak, “for a friend! Yeah, I’m bringing them to a friend!”

        “A special friend?”

        “A normal friend.” Victor smiled through grit teeth. “A normal, totally not into me friend.”

        “Well, in that case,” Tammy grinned and scooped up the padded handcuffs, “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind us testing them out, would they?”

        Shit. Shit, what was he supposed to do? Call Agatha? No, that would make things worse. Tell her no? Tammy didn’t seem to be taking that as an answer. What did he normally do in situations like this? He didn’t know, he didn’t get into situations like this! Call Justine. No, wait, call Elizabeth. She worked a night shift on Fridays. Tammy slipped a thumb into the waistline of his pants. Call Clerval! He could call Clerval and he would bail him out the same way he always did!

        That made him freeze. He couldn’t call Clerval. Clerval was on a date. An honest to god, real life date. With Robert Walton.

        “You good?” Tammy hesitated and drew back from him, obviously responding to the sudden visible shift in his mood. “We can stop. Sorry, I don’t want to force you into this.”

        Victor glanced up to Tammy, taking in her features. Blond hair, but a more natural blond, a honey kind of blond. Amber brown eyes. A smattering of acne across her cheeks, but her smile was cute in a dorky kind of way, he guessed.

        “I,” Victor’s mind flashed to Clerval again and he grimaced, “you know what? I’m good. I’m really fucking good.” He took the handcuffs from her hand. “Want to find a room?”

        His stomach was still swirling as they fought their way out of the bathroom, but he was just sick enough to be able to pretend it was the smell of alcohol and weed getting to him.

 

* * *

 

        Jascha was hiding. Or at least, in his head he was. He held a red plastic cup filled with something that smelled vaguely like some of the stuff in Victor’s lab, but tasted surprisingly nonthreatening. He felt a buzz in his fingers, and watched the room and the half-naked bodies in it swirl.

        “Jay Jay!” A man’s voice called out for him. He saw one of his housemates, Mason, walking over to him with a couple of girls in tow. He held a liter bottle of cherry vodka as if it were a weapon. “Yo, can I refill your drink? Second question; what the fuck are you doing in a corner? Get out here,” Mason grabbed him ungracefully by the arm, pulling him to his feet. He stumbled a bit, and startled as one of the girls wrapped her hands around his free arm.

        “Where-? Oh, no, wait…Okay,” he tried to tell Mason he didn’t want more Vodka in his punch, but he got more vodka in his punch. “Where’s Ernest?”

        “Prolly fighting with Ashley. She came here totes wasted already, said some shit about wanting to ‘talk.’ Bitches, right?” He turned to the girls around him. “But not you ladies. You’re all perfect.” They giggled.

        Jascha was aware that Ashley was Ernest’s “girlfriend,” although the exact terms of their relationship had oscillated drastically every hour for the past three days. Ashley was in charge of the Alpha Kappa Delta Phi sorority, and she was known for her capacity for psychological warfare. He had overheard Ernest’s half of a phone call with her, and it had caused _him_ emotional stress.

        “Where are we going?” Jascha asked Mason as they headed upstairs.

        “The secret’s out, man,” he slurred. He leaned in closer, as if to whisper, but his voice was only room level. “I know you’re a virgin.”

        “That isn’t-”

        “Doesn’t matter. These girls,” he gestured to the three near him “they’ve all taken bets on what you’re packing. I have too. We aim to collect.”

        “No, thanks.” Jascha shrugged off one of the girls. They were standing outside of a bedroom door.

        “What, are you crazy? Look at them. I hand picked them from the cheerleading team.” His face grew dark. “Unless you’re a fag.”

        Jascha felt like he had an inkling of what the F-word Ernest had been so concerned about was. He didn’t like it. He wanted to find Ernest-he knew that he had social power over Mason by way of being the captain of the soccer team. But, if Mason thought he was gay, it could put Ernest in danger if he asked for him. Especially if Ashley were here.

        “I’m not gay,” he said. Mason smiled.

        “Nah, of course you aren’t,” he knocked on the bedroom door, and finding no answer, opened it. He assumed it was Mason’s room. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t just brought him to his room. “You lose that V-card. I’ll stand guard out here; make sure no one comes in.” He pulled Jascha close to him once more. “Consider this the hottest hazing ritual ever.”

        With that, Jascha was alone with the two drunk girls. They were already taking their clothes off, and saying incoherent things to him, presumably about sex. For now they seemed more interested in showing off to each other than to him. He looked for a way out. He knew what sex was, and he knew he wasn’t ready to do it in someone else’s body. Hell, he’d only had this body for a two and a half weeks. He’d showered every day, and felt mostly adjusted to what it looked like, but not well enough to actually do anything with it.

        “What do you want us to do?” Asked one of the girls. She was slurring her speech, and holding onto her friend in what was trying to be a sexy embrace, but looked more like a desperate attempt to stay upright.

        “Honestly?” He asked, trying not to look at their breasts.

        “Anything you want,” the other one said.

        “Tell Mason you fucked me. Make up a size for my...penis, and go to sleep.” Jascha moved to the window, opening it up as high as it would go.

        “Holy fuck, are you actually gay?” One of them said.

        “No,” he looked out the window. It was a bad fall. Maybe twenty, thirty feet onto the bushes. Probably not a safe bet. He turned back to the girls.

        “Then what’s your problem?”

        “I’m not in the mood.” He ran a hand through his hair, but remembered that it had been tied up in a little bun by one of the other guys earlier. He felt ridiculous.

        “We can put you in the mood,” one of them sat on the bed, patting the space next to her. Her friend sat down beside her, and both looked at him expectantly. He considered trying it, briefly. But he really didn’t want to have to explain the intricacies of his disgusting body to a couple of drunk undergrads.

        “I want to go; I don’t feel well,” he said. He had an idea.

        “What?”

        Jascha took a deep breath in, and thought really, really hard about looking at himself that first day in the glass cabinets. All the slimy blood and crusted lymph over his wounds; the abject horror of seeing someone else’s eyes in his reflection. He threw up all over the floor. For good measure, he stealthily undid the top button of his pants while he was bent over.

        “Holy shit! Mason!” One of the girl’s shrieked. Mason came in. When he saw the mess, he relaxed a bit.

        “Can’t hold your liquor, bud? No worries, I got it.” He walked over to Jascha, and helped him up. Jascha wiped his mouth with his hand. “Ladies, can you go get the bleach and some paper towels from downstairs?”

        Jascha was led out of the room and back to his own. As Mason helped him upright, he noticed that his fly was down and gave a smirk.

        “Worth a shot. Next time maybe try to go easier on the liquor,” he patted Jascha on the back, hard. “Clean yourself up; I’m headed back downstairs.”

        Jascha was in his room within milliseconds, locking the door behind him. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. He pulled the hair tie out of hair and ran his hands through it several times. Mason sucked. He was by far the worst of all the guys he met, save for Victor. Even then, Victor hadn’t tried to force drunk sex on him. He regained his composure.

        He could hear shouting from Ernest’s room, even over the noise of the party downstairs and through the bathroom door. The shrill shouts of a woman’s voice rang out, followed by the much softer sound of Ernest pleading with her about something. Jascha went into the bathroom and knelt quietly by the door.

 _“I don’t understand what you’re so upset about,”_ Ernest said. _“Not everything has to be, you know, sexy and stuff. We can just chill.”_

 _“Are you even attracted to me at all?! This is week marks the third time you’ve stood me up on one of our ‘date nights’ to go do something with your friends.”_ She slurred every other word, stumbling over others. “ _My friends keep asking about you. Do you have any idea how hard it is to make up lies about our sex life?”_

        He couldn’t make out Ernest’s response, since his voice was too quiet. He leaned his head against the door, and wished she’d just leave him alone. Mostly because she was making Ernest miserable, but also because Jascha desperately wanted to have at least some peace.

        He felt bad eavesdropping after a while. There were only so many times he could hear her call Ernest horrible things before he felt like he might break down the door. He got himself together, zipped up his pants, and headed back down to the party. Perhaps if he got unbelievably wasted he’d black out and wouldn’t remember this night at all.

        Downstairs was somehow even worse than it had been an hour ago. More of the lights were off, and people had reached the level of drunkness where public nudity just becomes normal. A couple of girls were dancing on the kitchen table, and bodies were packed so tightly that he had to contort himself to make it back to the “bar.” Once there, he mixed himself another drink, chugged it, then made another, chugged that, felt awful, and made another one for good measure. He felt dizzy, and more emotional than before. He was angry at Mason. He was also mad at Ashley. He walked around a bit, observing the attempts of flirting that were going on between the drunk men and the drunker women.

        He looked at the girls dancing and didn’t feel much. He saw other guys getting into it; making lewd comments and sometimes even rubbing themselves through their jeans. It was abysmal. He couldn’t remember life before his death, but he could only assume that whoever he was then would have hated this too. He watched other couples dance, and kiss inelegantly. In the darker corners of the rooms he could see a few of the couples had their hands down each others pants, or worse, mouths. He wanted to leave. Like, _leave_ leave. Go somewhere else. But there was the threat of Victor. The minute he set foot in public, he was convinced he would be hunted. He was probably being hunted now.

        Hopelessly drunk and miserable, he started back up the stairs. He almost fell down as a blond girl ran past him, heels in one hand and phone in the other. She yelled something in the receiver about being dumped and wanting to be picked up, but he couldn’t hear her over the party and her own crying. He made it upstairs and back to his room, slamming the door behind him. He locked it and shoved a chair under it for good measure.

        He stripped off his clothes, which stank of liquor, sweat, and cheap perfume. He put on a pair of pajama pants and a university hoodie, sprawling across his bed with his face in his pillow. He had to pee, badly. He didn’t want to get up. Whoever invented alcohol was in hell.

        He made it to the bathroom and finished what he had to do. As he was washing his hands, he realized that he didn’t hear anything coming from Ernest’s room. He dried off, and knocked lightly on the door.

        “Ernest?” He asked. “Are you in there?”

        “No,” he heard from the other side of the door.

        “No?” Jascha leaned against the wall by the door. “Are you okay?” He heard footsteps approach the bathroom on Ernest’s side.

        “No.” Ernest’s voice was thin.

        “Do you want to talk about it?” He worked hard not to sound drunk.

        “It’s fine,” Ernest said. His nose sounded congested. “Go to bed.”

        “Can I come in?” Jascha asked. There was no answer. He tried the doorknob and found it unlocked, and he pushed it open by a few inches. Ernest stood stiffly by the door and wiped his face with his hand. His eyes were wet, and he had a small cut on his forehead. He looked pale, and very tired.

        “She, um, threw a shoe at my head. I’m not fantastic at being a goalie,” he tried to smile.

        “She threw a shoe at you?” Jascha couldn’t process what he was seeing.

        “Yeah. But, like, she was pretty wasted, so it’s not really her fault,” he didn’t meet Jascha’s eyes. “Can we maybe sit? In your room? Mine’s sort of a nightmare.”

        Jascha nodded, and the two changed rooms and sat next to each other on his bed. Periodically Ernest would sniff, but Jascha knew better than to point out that he was aware of it. Ernest picked lint off of his pants.

        “Did you break up?” Jascha finally asked. Ernest nodded. “Like, for real?”

        Another nod. Ernest took a balled tissue out of his pocket and rubbed his nose. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

        “Yeah, what’s up?”

        “Would it be, like, chill if maybe I, like, leaned on you or something?” He tensed. “Not, like, you know. Like that. But in a normal way.”

        “Dude, it’s okay, I already told you I don’t care about that stuff,” Jascha was so tired of frat boys. He felt Ernest lean his head against his shoulder, still sniffing every couple of minutes. “My room is pretty trashed. She and I tried to, like, you know…”

        “Yeah,” Jascha interrupted. If he had to hear about sex one more time he felt like he would die. “I get it. Do you want to stay here?”

        “Is that okay?” Ernest sounded nervous. “I don’t want to make you feel weird. Especially with all the stuff she’s probably saying right now.”

        Jascha pointed at his barricaded door. “No one’s getting in. I can do your room too if you’ll feel better.”

        “Honestly? Yeah.”

        Jascha got up and went into Ernest’s room, locking up his door and sliding the bean bag chairs under it. When he came back Ernest was curled up on his side. He stood next to the bed.

        “Do you want to be under the covers?” Jascha asked.

        “Right. Forgot about those.” Ernest pulled the sheets over himself, and pulled them back over what was apparently Jascha’s side of the bed. He got under them, trying not to feel strange about this whole thing.

        “Lights on, or off?” Jascha asked.

        “Off.”

        “This isn’t going to be like the Blair Witch Project again, is it?” Jascha said gently. Ernest laughed a little bit, which made him feel slightly better.

        “Off is good.”

        Jascha turned off the lights, and the two fell asleep to what he could only assume was an orgy below them.

 


	9. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry gets a pep talk. Victor's super hungover. Jascha owns his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: mentions of sex, brief mentions of internalized homophobia, brief mentions of body horror 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's stuck with us so far! We really appreciate all of you!

        “My dearest, sweetest Henry, you have got to get some of your shit together,” Elizabeth said as she draped a blanket over his shoulders. They were back at the apartment and he was safe.

        “It’s just...I had no idea it would be like that,” Henry took a sip of some hot chocolate that Justine pressed into his hand.

        “That’s fair. I had no clue Walton was so off the chains with the internalized homophobia thing,” Justine shrugged. “We’ll have to do a better job at setting you up with someone next time.”

        “I think I’ll pass,” Henry said slowly, “Not that I don’t appreciate the effort, but that was too much. I can’t deal with another guy like that again.”

        “You deal with Victor,” Elizabeth said.

        “Victor is not batshit insane,” Henry insisted. Elizabeth and Justine exchanged incredulous looks over their coffee.”He’s really not. He’s just got some quirks.”

        “Like an oddly intense passion for frog science, I guess,” Justine sighed, “Poor kid needs a hobby.”

        Henry’s eyes felt heavy and the weight of the blanket made him want to curl up in a little ball and sleep for eons. The low hum of the radiator and the sounds of frogs outside took up a comfortable amount of mental space so he really could be calm.

        “So what was your plan?” Elizabeth asked, “Were you just gonna stay under that tree all night? I’m dying to know your rationale.”

        “I was just upset, and had a bit of a meltdown. It’s really no big deal, I got over it.” Justine and Elizabeth gave each other another look.

        “It’s just...you don’t exactly have loud, public breakdowns. Not like Victor does,” Justine explained as she rested her head on his shoulder.

        “You’re right, I have them quietly in my room where no one can hear me and I can’t scare anyone,” Henry said, pointedly not making eye contact with any of his friends. The silence that filled the air hit him like a bag of bricks.

        “You don’t have to do it alone. We love you, Victor loves you even if he’s being a bitch right now,” Justine turned to look Henry in the eye, but found that he was still staring off into the void. “Does the void stare back?” she asked.

        “I...no. I don’t think it does,” Henry said, not moving his eyes.

        “Then you should look at me. Trust me, about five years of studying psych tells me it helps,” Justine placed a gentle hand on his arm. It took all of his strength to break with the void, but he did look at Justine and into her dark eyes. “Feel any better?”

        Henry broke down into tears, yet again. He leaned against Justine and tried to regulate his own breathing, but he could only do so much. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cry so much. It’s just been a long time and I’m stressed and scared and I don’t know what to do anymore.”

        “Crying is okay, you know. Like a chemical release valve. When was the last time you’ve actually cried?” Justine asked.

        “I think when...when Victor…” Henry looked even more distressed.

        “It’s okay, you don’t have to say it. Point it, it’s been a long time, especially for you. This is all good...well, not the Walton thing, that's majorly creepy and not okay, but you’re handling your emotions just fine now.”

        “Do you think Victor will ever want me again?” Henry asked, his voice muffled against the blanket and Justine’s shirt.

        “What? Why would you ask that? Of course he will. Once he gets over his current spat, everything will be okay,” Justine rubbed Henry’s back and shoulders.

        “You and Elizabeth always say that he loves me, but does he? Does he really? Why would he treat me like that?” Henry shut his eyes.

        “He’s an idiot and he’s dealing with a lot and hasn’t had the emotional experience to tell you what he really wants or needs. People just...are like that sometimes,”

        “But why would he leave me alone?”

        “Technically, you left him alone,” Elizabeth cut in.

        “Shut up, you’re not helping,” Justine snapped.

        “Hey, I’m just saying, it’s exactly what you should have done. There are somethings he’s just never going to figure out unless he realizes he won’t have you as support. He’s gonna figure out what’s important to him and what’s not,” Elizabeth shifted to sit on the coffee table, “ Best and most likely scenario, Victor realizes that he wants you around. Worst case scenario, he chooses whatever bizarre frog sex thing he’s been working on over you, and do you really,  _really_   want to be with someone who prioritizes frog sex over your relationship?”

        “I guess, you’re right... I think,” Henry said. He sat up a little straighter and rubbed his eyes. “Do you guys really think he does frog sex in that lab?”

        “You see,” said Elizabeth, leaning excitedly on Justine’s shoulder. “He’s Victor, so he’s gonna choose the most weird, socially unacceptable thing he could possibly work on. And what is more weird or socially unacceptable than sex..with frogs. It’s the perfect mix of everything awful in the world.”

        “Excuse you, frogs are wonderful,” Justine said.

        “I have to agree, frogs are way more socially acceptable than Victor Frankenstein,” Henry smiled.

        “But in all seriousness, maybe you two should talk a little bit. It doesn’t have to be a lot, and it doesn’t have to be friendly, but if Victor knows what’s bothering you, then he might know what needs to change and if you know what’s bothering him, then you can do the same,” Justine stood and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. “But it’s getting late, and I should sleep.”

        “Yeah, so should I. You should sleep too. You’ll probably feel a little bit better in the morning. Come down to breakfast and grab coffee or something, just to get things looking like normal,” Elizabeth stood and adjusted her own blanket cape.

        Henry smiled just the slighted bit before he went upstairs to his room. He had left the window open the night before so the cool air made his skin feel a little less awful. He didn’t turn on the lights before walking to his bed so he tripped over a small mountain of books and practically fell face first into his pillows. He swears he could still smell Victor. It was disgusting, but he almost missed it.

        It was almost impossible for him to fall asleep. Even though it had been weeks since he slept with Victor in his bed, he still felt like there should be someone there with him.  One day, he would wake up and Victor would be with him in the morning and they could hold each other and feel the sunshine on their faces. One day, they could take their time in the morning and eat breakfast together and shower and do all the normal nice things that people do. One day, he’ll be able to kiss Victor and it will be nice and sweet and everything will be okay for a little bit before the inevitable chaos of Victor Frankenstein comes back.

 

* * *

 

        Victor was so fucked up. Like so, so, so fucked up. Like infinitely more fucked up than he really ever remembered being? Ultimately fucked. Fucked out of his goddamn mind. Literally in this case. Tammy was nice. Odd, but nice. She had nice eyes and nice hair and she looked familiar, like a sweet spring day. She had been nice enough to agree to be tied to the bed so he didn’t have to do it, which was an added bonus, and she hadn’t even gotten mad when he had to leave to puke twice during the sex. He’d still done a good job, though, especially considering it had been a few years. She’d seemed into it and they’d both orgasmed like twice and then she’d given him a drink and another and another and now! He was super, super fucked up. Wonders of alcohol!

        When she’d first given him a drink, he’d declined. He wasn’t  really  supposed to drink alcohol. He had what people called an ‘excitable’ personality, which really meant an obsessive personality, which meant that he was  wayyyyyy  more likely to end up an alcoholic. Plus there was the whole being emotionally distraught thing. Victor was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to drink when you were emotionally distraught, but also he was thirsty and sick and alcohol was good and bubbly and weird and he’d just slept with someone who looked like a girl version of Henry and that probably wasn’t a good thing? Probably? He was pretty sure that was actually kind of a bad thing. Like a thing people did when they were narcissistic control freaks with deep rooted issues.

        Victor wanted to call Elizabeth.

        Victor didn’t have his phone.

        He frowned and patted his pockets again. The right one was empty. And the left one was empty. Annnddd the right one was empty. Had he checked the left one? He rolled over in bed and looked to Tammy who gazed back with glazed over amber eyes. Victor wondered if Henry looked like that when he was drunk and post-sex. Victor bet he glowed. That would fit, poetic and all.  Glowing.  Like a ray of sunshine.

        Victor frowned. Huh. Thinking about Henry wasn’t making him feel bad anymore. He followed the line of thought.

        Oh. Oh, wait, yeah. Now he felt bad again.

        “Tammy,” Victor slurred, “have you seen my...uh...my…” He patted his pocket again to show her what he was thinking of because he couldn’t recall the word.

        “Keys?” Tammy guessed. She was less fucked up than him, but not by much. “Pills?”

        “The...box thing....you, uh,” Victor mimed putting something by his ear.

        “...Phone?”

        “Holy shit, that’s it. You’re smart. Where did I put that?”

        Tammy shrugged, but dutifully crawled out of the bed with Victor when he stood to look for it. The second he was on his feet, the world startled twirling and bouncing like a roller coaster ride. “Oh, god, I feel so sick.” He muttered.

        “You did puke a lot.” Tammy commented. “Were you, like, sick before.”

        “Yeah.” Victor groaned. “I think my organs are shutting down.”

        Tammy stopped smiling, suddenly seeming very sober. “Holy shit, what? Are you okay? Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

        “Nah, it’s cool.” Victor caught sight of his phone on one of the dressers across the room and stumbled over to it carefully. “I think I’ll be okay. Probably. Who knows? Death.” He grinned like a maniac. “Makes life exciting, doesn’t it?”

        Tammy stared at him for a moment then inched back. “Yeaahhh…” she gestured loosely towards the door, “I think I’m going to, uh…”

        Victor hummed in agreement. “Okay. Let me know if you want to do this again, I had fun.”

        “Yeah, sure.” Tammy backed slowly out of the room. “Bye, Victor.”

        “Bye, Henry.”

        Oh, wait. That was the wrong name. Shit. Had she heard? Tammy was gone, but the door was open behind her. Victor shook his head to clear it.

        He wanted Henry.

        Victor pried open his phone and scanned the screen, trying to force the bouncing contacts into some kind of order. Text Henry. Wait, nope, not that one. He fought off the pain between his ribs. Text, uh. Text Agatha. He pulled open the little chat with her and read it over carefully.

_ Hey Victor, it’s been like a few hours and you haven’t appeared yet, can I leave? _

        He scrolled down more.

_ So it’s been four hours and I really do need to go so text me when you’re done, I guess. _

        Scroll.

_ Yeah, I’m going to bed. Don’t text me till tomorrow. Also, I want overtime for this. _

        Well there went that ride.

        With slightly fumbling fingers, Victor pulled up Elizabeth’s number. He rang it and pulled the block to his ear, humming.

        “Victor?” A groggy voice picked up after three rings. “Why are you calling me? Are you okay?”

        “Liz.” Victor spoke loudly into the receiver. “I need you to pick me up.”

        “Pick you up?” Elizabeth sounded a bit more awake now, but still slightly out of it. “Where are you? The science building?”

        “No, I’m, uh, at a frat house.”

        There was a long, deep pause. “Victor Frankenstein, what did you do.”

        “Nothing! Or, well, a lot of things. Or, well, I guess really one thing.” Victor hesitated. “Please pick me up.”

        There was a rustling on the other end of the line, indicating that Elizabeth was indeed climbing out of bed. Success. “Where are you and how soon can I be there?” She asked. Victor tried to focus enough to tell if she was mad or worried. Probably both.

        “I’m at Ernest’s house.” He answered as he began hunting around for the duffle bag he’d brought. He couldn’t find it, though, and every move he made seemed to throw the world into deeper disfunction. He sat down at the edge of the bed.

        “Ernest? Like, Ernest, our brother Ernest?”

        “Yup.” Victor paused. “Liz.”

        “Yeah.”

        “I think I fucked up.”

        Elizabeth didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Where.” She finally repeated.

        “52 College Street.”

        “Okay, I’ll be there in ten. I want you to go stand out on the curb and wait for me. Do not pass go, do not deviate from the route, do not even think about doing anything Victor-ish until I get to you, okay?”

        Victor mumbled about overbearing sisters.

        “Okay?” Elizabeth asked more insistently.

        “Yeah, yeah, okay.”

        She hung up.

        Victor looked around the room. Okay. Just had to stand up now and get down the stairs. Piece of cake. He grabbed the railing of the bed and lifted himself to his feet. Then he was on the ground. Maybe this is why he wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol. Maybe he was getting cancer. That thought made the pit of his stomach drop out. Was it normal to feel this bad? Was he normal? Were his organs shutting down? Was he shutting down? He wasn’t ready to die, not yet. He still had a lot to do and he wasn’t ready to give that all up. Was he hyperventilating or was that the air conditioning?

        He needed to get downstairs.

        He stumbled his way to the door and delicately mounted the steps. Thankfully, the raging party downstairs had long since dwindled to a scattered collection of passed out guys, who Victor was able to circumvent easily.

        He made it to the curb in record time. And by record time he meant in enough time that Elizabeth wasn't there yet.

        He hadn’t gotten Jascha. His stomach felt heavier at the thought. That was his fault. He’d let himself get distracted by that girl and forgotten why he was there to begin with. Was he really that unfocused? Was he really that bad of a creator that as soon as the opportunity presented itself, he’d abandoned the person he was trying so hard to protect? Was he a bad person?

        Okay. So this is why he didn’t drink alcohol.

        Victor sat heavily on the curb and stuck his head between his legs. Ten breaths in, ten breaths out. He kept losing track of how many breaths he was taking, but he was still breathing so that’s what counted. Just hold it together until Liz got here. That’s all he had to do. Keep himself in one piece until she came and got him and then he could…

        What?

        He didn’t know.

        Something tapped him on the shoulder and Victor near to jumped out of his skin, thoughts flashing suddenly to images of his experiment finally come to take it’s revenge on him for poor parenting skills. It was just Liz though, Liz looking down on him with an expression both concerned and calm.

        She bent by his side. “Hey.” She said softly.

        “Hi.”

        She glanced to the house with its piles of junk littering the yard and a boy half obscured by a bush, completely passed out. She grimaced. “Are we going to the hospital or home?”

        “Home.”

        “Okay.” She reached down and offered her hand, which Victor took. He leaned his full weight against her.

        “I can’t go home though.”

        “Pardon?” Elizabeth asked.

        Victor hesitated. What was he supposed to say? That he couldn’t face Henry again? That he couldn’t imagine going back home and being normal and functioning and alive the way he was before after a night like tonight? What was he supposed to do? He didn’t want to see Henry, he didn’t want Henry to see him, he didn’t want to see his face as it crumpled into tears or, worse, hardened into indifference. Victor couldn’t live in a world where Henry hated him anymore, he just couldn’t.

        “Am I a bad person?” Victor whispered into Liz’s shoulder.

        She didn’t hear him. Or maybe she just couldn’t respond. She probably agreed with him.

        “C’mon, Vic.” Liz said softly as she shifted his weight more fully against herself. “We need to get you in bed.”

        He nodded slowly and allowed Liz to guide him to the car. He was too tired to feel insulted as she buckled his seat belt like the child Henry said he was. He was too tired. As the road whipped by outside the window and his stomach threatened the eighth vomit of the night, Victor tried to calm his overactive mind into some kind of order, but the thoughts just circled on.

        Henry hated him. He couldn’t do anything right. Jascha was going to hurt Henry. Jascha was going to hurt himself. Jascha was going to hurt Ernest. Victor probably had blood cancer and was going to die just like his mother did, slowly and agonizingly. Ernest didn’t even bother to tell him where he lived. He was a bad brother, a bad friend, a horrid creator. He’d just slept with a Henry look-alike to comfort himself and now he felt disgusting. He wanted to peel off his skin, take apart the muscle, wring out the heart, run the whole thing through a washing machine. He couldn’t imagine ever feeling better. He couldn’t imagine ever feeling okay again.

        He wished he had been the one on the operating table that day, pulled apart for spare bones and ligaments, rebuilt into something worthwhile. He would be a better subject than Jascha because he’d let his creator tear him apart as many times as he needed to. At least Victor would be good for something then.

        “We’re almost back to the apartment.” Liz said.

        Victor nodded. “I’m sorry.”

        Liz reached over and ran a hand through his greasy, gross hair. “I know.”

        She wanted to say more, but Victor knew he looked pathetic enough that she wouldn’t. Not tonight. He wished she would. He deserved to be rotting in hell right now and Liz was pulling him out of the car to go tuck him into bed.

        Victor screwed his eyes shut and put all his energy into making sure his footsteps weren’t loud enough to wake Henry.

 

* * *

 

        When Jascha awoke, he had a slight headache, a very dry mouth, and felt something heavy on his chest. He’d been warned by some of the guys that alcohol can occasionally cause something called a “hangover,” but this wasn’t nearly as bad as what they had described. As he opened his eyes, he saw that the heaviness, at least, had nothing to do with the liquor. He’d forgotten that Ernest had spent the night. His arm was draped awkwardly across his chest, and the rest of Ernest was invisible under a mess of dark curls and the quilt, which he’d completely stolen during the night. Jascha looked over to his bedside clock. 10:30 AM. He knew that Ernest likely wouldn’t move until 11, since that was his set Sunday wake-up time. That gave him half an hour to shower before Ernest would need it.

        He carefully removed Ernest’s arm from his chest, placing it gently on the bed. Ernest rolled over, but didn’t wake. Jascha got up from the bed as quietly as he could, and tiptoed over to the bathroom. He hated taking showers, but it was a necessity. Especially with his wounds still healing. He turned the lights in the bathroom off, and pulled the blinds on the one window closed so that he could only barely see his naked reflection in the mirror. He still felt a bit like an intruder in someone else’s body, and it helped if he didn’t see all of it at once.

        He washed his skin carefully, using the special anti-bacterial soap Ernest gave him on each of his wounds. He had his own toiletries now, since he couldn’t really tolerate the strong smells of any of the shower stuff that Ernest owned, and he’d run out of the supplies Henry had given him. Having his own things helped him to feel a little more like a real person, rather than the composite he knew he was. Even if it was as small as having a scent that smelled like “him,” rather than Ernest or Henry, it made him feel slightly less uncomfortable.

        He finished his shower and turned on the lights, only opening his eyes to the mirror after a minute of emotional preparation. He needed to look. He tried to do it every day, even though it made him anxious and upset. His wounds were a healthy pink now, and he’d long since picked the stitches out. It had been painful and awkward, but after watching Ernest take the ones out of his hand, he was able to do it. He looked his body over, noticing each place where the skin tone changed along a seam; each new freckle or mole; the blue eyes that stared back at him. Part of him wished that he had more body hair-gross as that would be-just so that the lines where flesh met flesh would be softer. It helped that now, a few weeks out from being made, he had enough pubic hair to hide the fact that his penis wasn’t his. That had been the worst part; peeing every day with a body that was not yours. There were so many intimate daily tasks that you don’t think about with your own body that became unbearable in someone else’s. Part of him wished Victor had given him a vagina instead. At least then there wouldn’t be the finicky problem of erections.

        He looked at himself for about ten minutes. That was his rule. He touched the different, unrelated components of his body one at a time, feeling the texture and heat of his skin.

        “This is my body,” he whispered. “I have to take care of my body.” He repeated the phrase as he ran his hands over each unfamiliar peace of himself. “Maybe it wasn’t mine before, but now I am in charge of this body,” he sighed. “Whether I like it or not, this is me.” He startled as he heard Ernest knock on the door.

        “Are you in there?” Ernest said. He sounded groggy.

        “Yeah, one minute,” Jascha wrapped his towel around his waist and grabbed his pajamas off the floor. He opened the door without thinking, saw Ernest, who looked at his chest and arms. He immediately closed the door again.

        “What-,” Ernest said as the door slammed.

        “Just a minute,” Jascha felt his stomach twist. “I, uh, forgot to brush my teeth.” He ran the water. He hoped that Ernest hadn’t gotten a good enough look to notice that his arm, chest, and neck were all lined with deep scars and mannequin-like seams. He bent over the sink, splashing water on his face. He turned on the electric toothbrush and brushed his teeth again for good measure.

        He pulled his pajamas back on, and held his towel over his arm. There was no way Ernest wouldn’t notice. He had been half-naked before, and was now completely covered up from head to toe. He sighed deeply and opened the door.

        “Sorry about that,” Jascha said, feigning calm.

        Ernest looked at him in confusion, which dissolved into something resembling hurt. “You think I’m gay, too?”

        “What?” Jascha was lost.

         “You put on your clothes. When I saw you,” he furrowed his brow. “You don’t want me to see you, because you think I’m a homo.” Ernest said sharply.

         “That isn’t-”

        "God!” Ernest hissed. “Get out of the way. I need to shower.” Ernest pushed past him.”

        “Hey! Can we just-” Jascha was cut off by the door slamming in his face.


	10. Emotional Hangovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry breaks the silence. Victor feels guilt. Jascha understands emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, we adore kudos and comments, so don't be afraid to reach out! We always reply.

        Henry awoke to the sound of birdsong. Not the harsh, incessant chattering that had haunted him last night, but something soft and pleasant. Nesting mourning doves, perhaps. He stretched and let the sun fall across his face before he put on his glasses. Through the window he could see the light catch through budding leaves and flower petals. The grass itself seemed to sway and glow. Henry’s limbs felt heavy and soft, like they were meant to rest forever.

        “Victor?” he heard from the hallway. “It seems pretty bad for a hangover,” Henry heard Elizabeth’s footsteps cross in front of his door. Henry rolled over onto his side to look at his phone. 12:13pm. If Victor was still Victor, he should have been up hours ago, even if he was fucked up out of his mind last night. He heard Elizabeth cross his door again. And then again.

_ Problem?  _ He texted her.

_Hangover. Bad. Really bad._   She replied. Henry heard her approach the bathroom again. “Please drink something. It’ll help,”

        Henry heard something muffled from behind the bathroom door. “Please, Victor. Please. Your pain absolves you of nothing,” Henry heard a sob, or maybe a yell. Elizabeth took a step back, once, twice.

_Are you-_   Henry had started to type when there was a knock at his door, so quiet he almost thought he misheard.

        “Elizabeth?” he asked as he climb out of bed. His hair was sticking up all over the place and his clothes were crumpled. He opened the door and there she was, looking like she had been dragged straight from hell. “Are you alright?” he asked and Elizabeth fell into his arms.

        Henry took a few steps back and guided Elizabeth to the edge of his bed. He made a couple quiet sounds, like a cat comforting her kittens as he rubbed small circles into her back.

        “It’s just never been this bad before,” Elizabeth was crying, but her voice was as steady as ever.

        “It’s okay, he probably just had a bad night. It’s happened. We’ve seen Victor wasted before,” Henry kept his voice low and soft, only barely bringing it above a whisper.

        “No, it’s that I know he had a bad night, and he had a bad night with Ernest, and I had no idea he was going to go over there and I would have...I don’t know,”

        “He was with Ernest?” Henry asked, settling down next to her.

        “I don’t think he was with  with  him, but I don’t know why he would go there without telling me or asking for help,” Elizabeth rubbed at her eyes.

        “Are they both...still?”

        “Yes,”

        “And they haven’t...”

        “They haven’t spoken once,” Elizabeth curled into Henry’s shoulder. “I had to pick him up.”

        “What?” Henry asked.

        “From a frat party,” Elizabeth picked up her head and made eye contact with Henry. “I wasn’t going to tell you because I didn’t think it would matter.”

        “It’s okay, I understand. If you think he wouldn’t want me to know…”

        “No. You should,” Elizabeth took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. It looked like it took all her energy to keep her face neutral. “He asked me if he was a bad person and said he couldn’t come home.” Henry took her hand into his own.

        “We’ve been through his before. Maybe we can get him to see-”

        “Is he a bad person, Henry?” Elizabeth interrupted him, her resolve starting to break. “Is he?” Henry pulled her into a hug and pressed his nose into her hair. He swayed gently back and forth, hoping the motion calmed her down like it did with Victor.

        “I think,” Henry whispered, “That he makes bad decisions and is bad at empathy, but he’s not a bad person. Bad people don’t care if they’re bad.”

        “He’s just my baby brother,” Elizabeth keened into his chest.

        “I know. I know,” Henry held her as she cried. Her shoulders shook and her nails made little half-moon marks into the skin of Henry’s arm. “He cares, so much, about so many things. He will be okay.”

        “He’s fading right before my eyes,” she whispered. “I can’t lose him. Not like we’ve lost Mom...and Ernest.”

        “We’re not going to lose him,” Henry pulled back and looked her in the eye. “He’s not going anywhere.”

        “What are we going to do?” she asked.

        Henry took one look at her dirty hair and bloodshot eyes and said, “You, are going to go sleep and then shower. You look like you haven’t slept at all.”

        “I haven’t,” she said.

        “All night?”

        “Nope,”

        “Please, for the love of my goodwill, sleep. I can handle Victor.” He looked at his phone 1:23PM. “I’ll give him until 3. Maybe it really is just a hangover and he’ll feel better. If not, then I can deal, okay. Don’t worry, we’ve handled worse.”

        “Have we?” Elizabeth asked. Henry had to think for a moment.

        “I’m not sure, but we’ll handle it.” Elizabeth got up and tried to smooth down the wrinkles in her top.

        “Text me how it goes?” she asked.

        “I promise,” Henry said. Elizabeth nodded and returned to her room, leaving Henry alone. He looked at his phone. 1:35PM. Okay, so he had one and a half hours before he could try to help Victor. There were plenty of things he could do for two and a half hours, like work on his thesis. He always needed to work on his thesis. He opened his notebook and looked through his checklist. Today he was supposed to do…“ Vigil Strange.”  Perfect. That was exactly what he needed. He opened his anthology, highlighter and pen in hand and started to read.

_         “Vigil strange I kept on the field one night; _

_ When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day, _

_ One look I but gave which your dear eyes return’d with a look I shall never forget, _

_ One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach’d up as you lay on the ground, _

_ Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle, _

_ Till late in the night reliev’d to the place at last again I made my way, _

_ Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)” _

        Henry took a deep breath and made a few notes in the margins. This was a bad idea. He should just switch to a different poem. He had a whole book full of them, right there. But no, he decided he had to do this one, and so he would. It’s just academia. They’re just words. He can cope.

_         “Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind, _

_ Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battlefield spreading, _

_ Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night, _

_ But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed, _

_ Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my hands, _

_ Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade—not a tear, not a word,” _

        Everything would be alright. In just a few hours Victor would start to feel better and then he could report good news back to Elizabeth. There was sunshine and he could hear the geese outside his window, grazing on grass, wondering which of the ducks they were going to torment next. Nothing that bad could happen on a day like today. There were just words and notes and the feeling of his pen on the paper as he wrote.

_         “Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier, _

_ As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole, _

_ Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death, _

_ I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again,) _

_ Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear’d, _

_ My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop’d well his form, _

_ Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet, _

_ And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited,” _

        Victor wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dying. He wasn’t going to die. There was not a single trace of danger, anywhere. There was nothing to do, but go in the bathroom and hand him a bottle of water and talk with him quietly until he felt well enough to stand. Then he could watch over him and he could keep him safe. Henry looked at his phone. 2:23PM. Almost there. He was almost there. He could make it until 3. That’s all he needed. Enough time for Victor to figure it out on his own, but also enough so that he could be safe.

_         “ Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field dim, _

_ Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,) _

_ Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brighten’d, _

_ I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket, _

_ And buried him where he fell.” _

        Henry couldn’t wait anymore. He looked at his phone. 2:51PM. That was close enough. It had to be. There were just nine minutes between him and Victor. It really wouldn’t make that much of a difference, but he had remembered what Victor said, ‘ followed him around like a puppy.’  2:56PM. He could wait four minutes. He needed to wait four minutes. It was fine. There wasn’t a problem. Nothing that bad could possibly happen in four short minutes. Nothing.

        2:58PM. Henry got out of his bed and ran a comb through his hair. It had been a long time and he hadn't showered, so it still stuck up at odd angles. He considered changing his clothes, but thought better of it.

        2:59PM. Henry left his room and grabbed a fresh bottle of water form the fridge and then he stood at the bottom of the stairs, awkwardly passing it between his hands. 3:00PM. Henry went upstairs and placed a hand on the bathroom door before he knocked.

        “Elizabeth?” Victor asked. His voice sounded like someone attacked it with steel wool and then left it for dead in the desert. He held his breath for a moment.

        “It’s...Henry,” he said. He was suddenly hyper aware of how his own voice sounded: small, soft, and scared.

        “Henry?” Victor asked. Something about his voice changed, but he couldn’t tell how.

        “Can I...can I come in?” There was a long stretch of silence that struck Henry like a knife through his throat.

        “You don’t have to,” Victor’s voice was barely more than a raspy squeak.

        “Please, Victor,” Henry said, placing his forehead on the door. “Please, may I come in?”

        “Please.” It was all Henry needed. He opened the door as gently as he could managed and there was Victor, weeping on the ground.

        He was covered with a film of sweat and smears of blood where he had picked at his fingernails. His hair was plastered to his neck and face and every part of him seemed hollow, like he was a walking shadow. The dark circles under his eyes made his face look like a skull. He knelt down and pressed the water bottle into his hands.

        “Don’t look at me. Please, please, please don’t look at me,” He wasn’t whispering, but his voice didn’t even fill the space of the small bathroom. Henry turned away. He could not cry. He could not.

        Henry sat so that they were back to back, the cold from Victor’s skin drew the warmth from his own. Every breath Victor took was a trial.

        “In and out. In through your nose. Out through your mouth,” Henry repeated his childhood mantra as he matched breath with Victor. He could still feel the hitches and gasps. “Easy, easy; it’s okay. You can get enough air. It’s okay,” Henry reached back and put a hand on Victor’s forearm.

        “Why?” Victor asked. His head slumped forward and Henry was afraid it would hit the wall.

         _Because I love you_ , Henry thought, but he couldn’t say it out loud. Not here, not now. “I’ve got you, it’s okay. You can relax,” Henry flinched when Victor screamed and curled forward in on himself. He couldn’t do this anymore.

        Henry turned and moved in front of Victor. As gently as he could, he pried his limbs apart and settled him against his chest. He could feel him shiver against him. “We can figure this out. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you,”

        “Why? After everything I’ve done to you? Why? Why?” Victor voice pitched into hysterics. Henry pulled him tighter against his body and buried his face into his sweat-sticky hair.

        “Because I care about you. Because you’re my friend. Because I want you to be safe,” Henry absolutely could not cry, it would just make everything far, far worse. He pulled away from Victor and noticed that he hadn’t opened the water yet. “Can I help you? Please, Victor,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

         Victor gave him the smallest nod, and that was all it took. Henry uncapped the water and poured it to a cup on the sink. He braced Victor with his back against his chest and raised the glass to his lips. He relaxed as he felt Victor swallow.

        “Okay, okay, see? It’s good,” Henry’s hand settled Victor’s stomach. For the first time he noticed the smell. It was wretched. The smell of vomit, bile, and iron hung around Victor like a fog. “Can you take a bath?” he asked.

        Victor shook his head.

        “Can you take a bath if I help you?” There was no response. “It’s okay, Victor, it really is.”

        “Please.” Victor hung his head and clung to Henry’s arm. It broke Henry’s heart to have to disentangle him, but he walked over to the tub and turned on the water, testing it’s temperature. As soon as it was full, Henry turned back to Victor.

        “Do you need help with your clothes?” he asked. Victor nodded and raised his arms. Henry took a shallow breath and disrobed Victor. He supported him with his shoulders and led him to the bath. Victor made the smallest noise when he got in the water.

        Henry urged him to lie down and put his hair in the water. He got a dollop of pine scented shampoo and started to slowly work it into Victor’s scalp. He closed his eyes and leaned into Henry’s hands. He filled a plastic cup with bathwater and washed the soap from his hair, shielding Victor’s eyes with his hand. He repeated it two more times until his hair was finally clean. Then, he began to wash Victor’s body. With movement of the washcloth, he felt Victor’s muscles relaxing under his hands. Victor’s little smile and mewls of contentment made Henry’s heart soar to the stars. He gathered Victor into his arms and pressed his nose into his now clean hair. He didn’t care that his shirt was ruined. He got to hold Victor and feel his heartbeat and that was all that mattered.

 

* * *

 

        If Victor had the words to speak or the strength to stand or the sanity to push Henry away, he would be halfway across the room by now rather than sitting in sudsy, warm water listening to his closest friend hum softly to himself as he worked. It did, Victor admitted, feel nice to be clean. It felt nice to feel Henry’s skin on his, to feel his face in his hair, to feel a contact that wasn’t immediately tarred by metal or slick porcelain or tile. But then again, Victor wasn’t supposed to feel nice, was he?

        His skin still held the ever present itch it had taken on last night. Only the sensation had grown from then, morphing from a reliable background noise to an all consuming force, searing on the surface and seeping into the bone. His stomach still turned and convulsed with each shift of his body and the pounding in his head had taken on a phantom pitch so that he couldn’t tell anymore if it was a stress headache or an outside noise. His fingers, submerged in the soapy water, burned. He stared at them as the cuticle on his left hand bled lazily into the slightly blackened waters. It left a trail of red, which dissolved to pink then to nothing. Victor found himself envious of the disappearing act.

        “Okay,” Henry’s voice floated above him, “give me your left leg.”

        Victor wasn’t sure he could reliably lift it, but a flash of sudden, intense guilt gave him the strength. Henry grabbed his thigh gently and began to rub the cloth over it. Everything Henry did was gentle. Henry was gentle. Victor was going to ruin him. He took as deep a breath as he could manage through his shallow lungs and forced himself to to focus on the act of being cleaned, on Henry’s soft, delicate hands and the thickness of his arms. Strong, but not too veiny.

        Another wave of sick rose in his throat and Victor, unable to contain it, gagged on the taste. He leaned over the side of the tub and retched. The sensation ripped up his already-sore throat as bile splattered, putrid yellow and thin, across the white tiles.

        Victor sobbed and pressed his forehead against the tub’s edge as his throat screamed bloody murder and his stomach continued to convulse uselessly, trying to push his guts up and out his mouth. It was a long moment, agonizingly so, as Victor tried to stave off the release of his insides. His body was consuming itself, he realized with a start. He’d built new life and now he was paying for it with the slow decomposition of his own. His breath got shallower still.

        “Victor, breath.” Henry’s hand came down on his back and Victor startled away from it, scrambling back to the far side of the tub, his feet struggling to find traction on the smooth bottom. The move was a mistake, though, because it brought Henry’s face back into stark detail, his worried, fragile, handsome face with the smooth cheek bones and the strong chin and the amber eyes, seconds away from spilling tears and Victor could  not  make him cry, not again and again and again.

        “Victor, please.” Henry was begging now, leaning towards him with one hand outstretched like he was approaching a spooked horse.

        “Don’t touch me,” Victor screwed his eyes shut and pressed his head back into the corner of the bathtub stall, “please, please don’t touch me.”

        The hand didn’t land, but Victor still didn’t open his eyes. If he did, he might see Henry’s tears, now slipping down his cheeks in rivets if the hitch of his breath was anything to go off of. Or worse, he might see Tammy, staring back at him with Henry’s eyes.

        Victor drew his knees clumsily to his chest and pressed his eye sockets into them as hard as he could. Half of him hoped that if he did it with enough strength, it might smash his brain in, but the part of him that passed fifth grade knew it wouldn’t. The other part of him that had been through these kind of fits before knew that too. He couldn’t help the next scream that tore through him, but, for Henry’s sake, he tried to muffle it with a hand.

        He tasted copper and that made him want to throw up again. He couldn’t breath. He kept trying to breath in and out like Henry had said and like he knew he was supposed to, but his body wouldn’t cooperate, sucking the air out of him, one choking pull at a time.

        “Victor, listen to me: In. Out.” Henry was too close to him, but Victor didn’t have anywhere else to go. “In. Out.” The other man was breathing shallow too. Henry apparently couldn’t take his own advice. “Can you breathe with me?”

        Victor shook his head against his knees. He didn’t want Henry here anymore, he thought he had, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t want him. Ever. Even his very presence was causing Henry distress and Victor had said he wouldn’t do that to him. Victor wanted Elizabeth, or his dad, or someone, or no one; anyone but Henry.

        “Leave.” He managed to force his voice to work in between the gasps and the burning. It was weak. “Leave.”

        “No, Victor, I’m not leaving you.” Apparently forgetting the instruction, Henry leaned forward and pushed a hand through Victor’s hair. Victor yanked away if he’d been electrocuted.

        “Please, please, please, leave, please.” He chanted through shaking teeth. “Please, Henry.”

        Henry froze. “You…” Uncertainty. “You called me Henry.”

        “Leave.” Victor repeated.

        “No, I- Victor, I’m not going to leave you, okay? We’re in this together. It’s okay, I’m here, I’m  here .”

        “Leave.” Victor begged harder. “Please, you have to leave me alone.”

        “No, I’m not going to-.”

        “I’m a bad person,” he repeated to his knees, “I’m a bad person, I’m a bad person, I’m a bad person, I’m a bad-”

        “Victor-”

        “I’m a bad person!” Victor cried, his volume getting too loud, too quick, suddenly filling the whole of the bathroom with its painful echo. He didn’t know who he was talking to, Henry or himself or some unseen entity lingering just beyond him. Maybe if he screamed loud enough, Jascha would hear him too. “I’m a bad person, I’m a bad person, I’m a bad person, I’m a bad person, I’m a bad person!”

        Henry stood. Victor could barely see him through his tears, but he could tell the moment the other fled the bathroom, leaving him to his nonsensical yelling.

        It felt like years, but it was probably only minutes before Victor had tired himself out too much to continue.

        He leaned over the edge of the tub and puked once more before curling up tighter in the freezing water. He watched the door out of half closed eyes, hoping beyond hope that no one else would come, hoping, foolishly, that Henry had gone down the stairs and climbed into his car and drove off to somewhere Victor and his decaying soul would never be able to reach him again.

 

* * *

 

 

        Jascha and Ernest spent the better part of the morning, and afternoon, in completely separate rooms. Jascha couldn’t bring himself to explain to Ernest that his reasoning for putting on all his clothes was that he was actually a dead man, rebuilt from other dead men, and then reanimated in a fit of divine ideations. Ernest wouldn’t have let him, either. After his shower (Jascha could hear him mumbling to himself through the door) he’d returned to his room and hadn’t resurfaced since.

        Jascha spent the early afternoon working on reading. He felt that he could remember the words, or at least the letters, fairly well now. It was figuring out how to read effectively that was hard, since he still needed to sound them out verbally in order to comprehend their meaning. It was strange, having the sounds and the memory of letters but not their meaning on a page. It felt like he’d lost something important.

        Around 1PM he heard Ernest again through the door. He was on the phone with someone, but from the tone he could tell it was neither his baby brother nor Ashley.

        “Why are you calling me,” his voice was frigid. “I told you never to call me.”

        Jascha tried not to listen. He knew it was wrong. But he could only read  Sports Illustrated  for so long without feeling like he was going insane.

        “What are you talking about?” Ernest’s tone stayed flat. “Why would I care where Victor was last night?” A pause. “Hey--calm down. What’s the issue?” Jascha could hear a shred of concern bleeding into Ernest’s voice, but only by a millimeter. “What? No, I don’t remember him being here. He doesn’t know where I live. Did you give him my address?” Ernest sounded mad again.

        Jascha tread lightly into the bathroom, sitting near the door on the edge of the tub. He could hear Ernest pacing back and forth. He locked the door to the bathroom from the inside, just to be sure Ernest couldn’t open it up and shock them both.

        “Elizabeth, I don’t care that he’s having a breakdown,” the ice was back. “I know he’s my brother. I don’t care.” There was a pause as whoever was on the other line spoke. “Take him to the hospital, then! This isn’t my problem! I don’t even know-It’s not my job to take care of him!”

        Jascha couldn’t help but feel a little comforted knowing that he wasn’t the only one who hated Victor, though he was terrified that it sounded like he’d been at the house. How close had he come to being discovered? He felt unsafe, even here.

        “Elizabeth!” Ernest shouted, startling Jascha. “I didn’t drug Victor! No one here would do that; we aren’t monsters,” he scoffed. “Did you just call me to find out what crazy, drugged-out orgies I’m having on the weekends?” There was quiet for a while. “You know, I thought the first time you’d call me would be, I don’t know. About me.” His voice was softer; pained. “Goodbye, Elizabeth.”

        There was a stillness for several seconds, followed by the sound of drywall cracking under a lot of force. Jascha startled and stood up.

        “Fuck!” Ernest shouted hoarsely. Jascha knocked on the door.

        “What was that sound?” Jascha asked gently.

        “Nothing! Jeez, leave me alone.” Ernest’s voice cracked slightly.

        “Are you hurt?” Jascha tried to keep his tone steady, but his heart was racing.

        “Go away-I don’t want to talk about it,” his voice was strained. Jascha unlocked the bathroom door and took a step inside. “God! I told you to leave me alone!”

        Jascha entered the room to find Ernest bent over, clutching his hand. He stood next to the wall, which had a nasty, fist-sized hole through it. Ernest looked between Jascha and his hand, groaning as he tested the range of motion of his fingers.

        “What happened?” Jascha asked. He took a step closer to Ernest, but didn’t crowd him,

        “I punched a wall. What the fuck did you think happened?” He looked at Jascha. His eyes were wet and red, and he looked miserable.

        “Who was on the phone?” Jascha took another step. “Can I get you anything for your hand?”

        “My sister,” he mumbled. “Give me a few minutes. I deserve this.”

        Jascha shook his head, and knelt down near Ernest. He felt awkward; he didn’t actually know how to help. If he admitted that he knew who Victor was, he’d have to explain all of it. Either that or he’d have to lie, and he felt like that wouldn’t end well for him. Ernest slumped the rest of the way to the floor and buried his face in his knees.

        “This is it. This is the worst day,” Ernest’s shoulders shook. “God, I wish I were dead.”

        “That’s not true,” Jascha said, though he realized the irony. He was dead.

        “You don’t get it,” Ernest said miserably. “I dumped my girlfriend, and she’s going to tell everyone I’m a fucking homo. I’m gonna lose the team, and all of my friends. Without that, I can’t keep my sports scholarship, and I either have to ask my dad for money again or drop out,” he sniffled. “My-Victor was apparently in my house last night. He’s not...he isn’t supposed to know where I live. I didn’t even want to finish school here because of him. I-I thought,” he heaved in a breath of air. “I thought, maybe, if I lived in a frat, off his grid, I’d be safe. Elizabeth only knows where I am because I told Justine,” another sharp breath. “Since she’s my emergency contact, after my dad of course.” Ernest had devolved into sobs.

        Jascha moved closer to him but didn’t touch him. He did, however, offer him a tissue from the small pack of them in his pocket. He had no idea whose tissues these were, since the sweater wasn’t his, but they were clean. Ernest blew his nose and kept crying.

        “My entire life is ruined. The one good thing I had was the team-and Will, of course-but I can’t have either of them now.” He peeked up at Jascha. “Elizabeth thinks I, or someone in my frat, drugged Victor. She’s gonna tell Dad and I’m gonna get in trouble and not be allowed home, even though  _ he’s _  the psychopath!” He buried his face back in his arms. “I could handle the shit with Ashley. If it weren’t for this, I could probably have figured it out.” His shoulders shook harder. “Jascha, I can’t handle having my friends think I’m a queer and my family thinking I’m an attempted murderer. I just can’t-I didn’t even know Victor was  _ here _ !”

        Ernest ground his injured hand against his knee, causing it to bleed more. Jascha caught his wrist as gently as his could, preventing him from doing more damage. Ernest struggled against him briefly, but gave in once Jascha draped his free arm around his shoulders. He held Ernest tightly, letting him get his emotions out without subjecting his body to any more injury than he or Ashley had already caused.

        “I just don’t get it,” he finally said. His voice was tired. “Everything was fine a few weeks ago. What happened? What fucked everything up so badly?”

        “I...I don’t know,” Jascha said. He felt like he had a rough idea of what it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem 'Vigil Strange' is by Walt Whitman.


	11. Accidents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry drives. Victor is afraid. Jascha isn’t a doctor.
> 
> Content warnings for descriptions of abuse containing homophobic slurs, car accidents, and gore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! We have a huge backlog of content so we're adding Monday as an update day. As always, we adore to hear you feedback.

        Henry could drive exactly 381.6 miles before he ran out of gas. That could get him a lot of places. Missouri. West Virginia. Tennessee. Michigan. If he stayed on this highway for some amount of time he could reach the Great Lakes and then everything would be alright. There was no one here; no one anywhere. He came to a stoplight.

         _Going away_  he sent to Justine and he flipped his phone shut and threw it in his back seat. There were groups of girls walking down the sidewalk in shorts and bright colored t-shirts even though it was November. They laughed and pointed at different cars as they passed by.

        “Turn right on Bloomington St,”  his GPS told him as he passed another intersection. He missed the turn.  “Turn right on Bloomington St.”  He kept driving straight on the same road.  “Recalculating,”  he couldn’t go home; there was not home. There never has been, not without Victor.  “Recalculating,”  He’s lived with him for, what, years now. Ever since they were in middle school. He’d go to the Frankenstein’s and they could protect him from-  “Recalculating,”

        “Fuck!” Henry slammed on his breaks, grabbed his GPS, and threw it into the back of the car. He heard little plastic shards go everywhere. For a loud moment, all he could hear was his own breathing. Then, there were the car horns and he had to move.

        There was one road that could take him towards the lake and he just needed to follow it. It wasn’t that hard. He was a competent person and a competent driver and it was fine. He couldn’t bring himself to turn on the radio. He just needed silence; complete and utter silence. The type of silence that was so loud it would drown out his inner monologue and he could just be. There would be nothing and no one, not Elizabeth or Justine or Ernest or Victor.

        The sun crossed lower into the sky. How long had it been? It couldn’t have been much, but the flashing clock on his dashboard said 7:00PM. Four hours? That didn’t seem right. But, the exit was right there, so he might as well take it. The trees were taller than he remembered and they almost seemed to disappear into the sky. It was around here somewhere. Henry didn’t notice the moment when the road went from pavement to gravel.

        He pulled up to a ring of little shacks. Inside the main building, a man, well into his eighties, looked up from his Sudoku and at Henry. “Um, may I please have a room for the night?” Henry asked, already digging through his pockets for cash.

        “That’ll be 50$,” the old man croaked.

        Henry turned pale. “It was a lot cheaper last time I was here,”

        “So?”

        “I have 25$ and that’s all,” The man looked at him with empty eyes. “Please, I have nowhere else I can go.”

        The man scanned him up and down. “That’s a nice watch.”

        Henry looked down at his wrist. Oh no. No no no.  It was a nice watch. The face was set with tiny black garnets in the four cardinal directions. The metal was engraved with constellations and astral bodies and Henry kept it shining like moonlight.

        “I can’t,” he said, “It’s special and it’s worth far more than 50$.”

        “Then freeze,” the old man said, turning back to his game.

        What could Henry do? He didn’t have enough gas to get back to the apartment. He didn’t have cell reception, he didn’t have anyone who could help him, and the temperature was steadily dropping. “Fine, take it, but I keep my money and you have to feed me and give me the most secluded cottage you have.”

        “Okay,” he didn’t raise his eyes to meet him. Henry unclasped the watch and caught a glimpse at the inscription on the back:  “So you may always know when to come home. -Alphonse Frankenstein”  It felt like treason, but what did it matter? It’s not like he could ever go home again.

        The old man gave him his keys and pointed him down a dirt path towards his cottage. It looked exactly like it did when he was 14. The door was rotting out of its frame and not a single window was entirely complete. A watch and his life for this? At least it had a lakeside view.

        Henry unlocked the door and tried to turn on the lights, but nothing happened. Moonlight filtered through the yellowed glass and gave him just enough light to see by so he didn’t trip over the broken floorboards.

        _ “You’re a bad person. A disgrace.” _  Henry could hear someone yelling.  _ “All the money we spent on you and this is how you treat us?” _  Henry knew exactly who was yelling.  _ “We’ve given you the food on your table, the clothes on your back and you have the nerve to tell us that you’re a fucking faggot,” _  glass broke over Henry’s head, but this time he didn’t feel anything cut him. He tore his eyes open and stared at the peeling wallpaper. 20$ and a day’s worth of labor was a small price to pay for someplace safe to sleep at night.

        Henry suddenly felt intensely aware of his own body. His hair had started to become matted and his teeth were disgusting. He looked at his shaking hands and his fingernails and cuticles were full of dirt and grime. Victor’s vomit was still dried to his shirt. He needed to be clean. He needed to be clean right now.

        Henry stumbled towards the bathroom and caught himself on the towel rack before he hit the ground. He was going to be sick. He crumpled to his knees and peeled the shirt off his body. He wretched into the toilet, but he hadn’t had anything all day so nothing happened. His own chest just clamped down on his heart and squeezed until Henry couldn’t breathe. He needed to be clean.

        He started to run the bathwater and it came out freezing cold and murky, but it don't matter. He shoved his head under the faucet and let the water run through his hair and into his ears and eyes. In a frenzied panic, he grabbed an ancient bar of soap and started to scrub his skin. The dirt came off, but he couldn’t stop. There was still Ernest and Victor and his parents on his hands. It wouldn’t come off until he rubbed away every last part of his skin. He dropped it and had to plunge his arms into the water and it burned.

        Henry didn’t notice that he ended up curled on the tile floor. He flung himself away from the water and pain and he screamed. They were not like Victor’s screams; short, intense, and full of rage. He screamed like an animal whose cubs were shot in front of him. Something unseen and deadly forced it from his stomach, chest, and limbs. He clawed at the ground and his ears and nothing made it stop.

        This was a mistake. He had to leave. It wasn’t safe here anymore and he needed to be safe. He left his shirt and shoes in the bathroom and staggered through the rocks and dirt to his car. He knew what it felt like when blood was leaving his body. He turned the ignition and it didn’t start, then he tried again and the engine roared to life. Where could he go? Nowhere. He had nowhere.

        He took the road back towards college. He knew. He knew he didn’t have enough gas. He knew he didn’t know where he was. He knew and he drove anyway. There was the sound of the car and the wild and the trees and all the animals in the trees. They looked at him with their eyes, bright, and yellow as amber, as his father’s. They looked at him and they saw him and they claimed him as their own. What sort of amber-eyed animal felt the pain of others? None. They could have him back and eat him raw for all he cared.

        Fuck. How fast was he going? He couldn’t be near school already. He couldn’t go back there. Not to that apartment. Was that the sign for the suburbs? That couldn’t be right. Just a moment ago he had been by the lake. What was the time? He’d only been gone for a few hours. 3:34AM. Fuck. It was late, and the trees had eyes, and they could see him. They could see him.

        There was the sound of metal crunching and bits of glass cutting through human skin. There were sirens and people with blankets and a truck. There was paperwork and questions and words of thanks that the tree hadn’t hit the driver’s side. There were tears and signatures and then Henry could go. He lied. He lied to the police and said that he would call a friend to pick him up. Instead he walked in the dark to a house by the water. There was blood everywhere, but that blood; that blood wasn’t his. It came from his body, yes, and his heart pumped it through his veins, but it did not belong to him anymore. He felt it still flowing over his nose and into his mouth. He took inventory. All the blood and nothing hurt.

        He didn’t bother knocking, he just went straight to the one room he knew. He silently knocked on the door. “Please,” he asked Jascha, “Can I sleep on your floor tonight?”

 

* * *

 

        It took three hours of silence for Victor to finally uncurl his arms and vacate the murky waters of the still-full bath. Three hours, or maybe more, or maybe less. Or maybe Victor just didn’t know anymore. The mania had passed him. For now. Now, he just felt sick. Normal sick though, the kind of sick he knew he could handle or at least sleep off to some extent or another. Not insane person sick. Not-

        Victor pulled a towel carefully from the rack and wrapped it around his waist. Clothing, his brain reminded him. Like he was a robot running on autopilot. Like he was a child waiting for instructions. He pulled his vomit-covered pj top from its place kicked behind the toilet and slipped it over his head. It took more concentration than he had to find the pants, but he did anyways. His intestines still threatened him. Victor’s stomach was so empty, even the occasional wretch turned up nothing, but small piles of bile which he swallowed back.

        There was vomit on the floor. Blood in the tub. The place where his head had hit the wall held a small patch of red smear. The shape reminded Victor of a frog. He wanted to clean it up, but he didn’t have the energy to even start.

        Victor turned the doorknob slowly and stepped out. Immediately, he locked eyes with Elizabeth, who sat against the opposite wall. Her hand shook around the phone she was clutching and her eyes were wide and horribly pale in the dark, reflecting her fear like a headlamp. She didn’t stand. Victor didn’t dare move.

        “You were screaming.” Elizabeth finally said. Her voice was just as shaky as her hands and Victor felt his soul crash out the bottom of his feet.

        “I’m sorry.” He said. His own voice sounded dead to his ears, emotionless and worn thinner than a whisper.

        “I haven’t heard you scream like that since…” Elizabeth bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. “Since mom…”

        Victor didn’t need to guess how she was going to finish that sentence. He followed the wall with one limp hand and lowered himself slowly to sit beside her. “It’s okay.” He said after a moment. He reach out a hand to pat her head.

        Elizabeth breathed out a high-pitched, hysterical kind of laugh. “How is this okay? How is any of this okay?”

        “It’s not as bad.” It was worse, actually, way worse than it had been back then if he was following what Elizabeth was thinking of, but there were enough differences between the two times that he could separate himself away, create a fictional kind of distance in his head. He wasn’t a child anymore, however he might feel like one, and Henry wasn’t dead. Or, well, not yet at least. Victor starved off the quickening in his breath by holding it.

        “I just…” Elizabeth was crying again in that specific kind of way she only ever seemed to cry for him, half terrified, half mournful. “I can’t lose you again, Vic. I just can’t.”

        Victor sighed heavily through his nose. “You didn’t-” he croaked, “you didn’t lose me. I came back.”

        “Yeah, after a month of hospitalization.” Elizabeth snapped.

        As Victor froze and drew away, her expression turned immediately regretful. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Vic, I just can’t go through this again. Losing our mother was hard enough and then everything happened with you and Ernest and William and just kept happening- and I- I couldn't keep up with you. I lost you and I just keep losing you and I keep losing you and I don’t think I can live through another month like that February. I can’t live through the aftermath of Ingolstadt again.”

        Victor hesiated then leaned his weight against Elizabeth. He didn’t have anything to say. Apparently she didn’t either.

        “Hey, uh, Elizabeth.” Justine materialized in the stairwell, looking slightly disheveled. “Oh. You’re out of the bathroom.”

        Victor nodded.

        “Nice, cool, cool, uh, I can’t find Henry.”

        “What?” Elizabeth sprung to her feet, jostling Victor out her way in her attempt to gain ground. “What do you mean you can’t find Henry?”

        “I mean, I can’t find Henry. He’s gone and so’s his car.” Justine answered. “Which doesn’t bode well considering,” she waved vaguely at Victor, who shrunk back into the wall. Henry  had  left then.

        “Well- maybe he’s just going for a drive.” Elizabeth paced the space between Victor and Justine. “He does that, right?”

        Justine shook her head. “He goes for walks. Three hour long car rides? Not so much.”

        Elizabeth stopped and stared at Henry’s door for a moment. She turned to Victor.

        “Where would he go?”

        Victor, startled at being addressed, blinked owlishly back at her. “I, uh. I don’t know.”

        “You’re his best friend, how would you not know?” Elizabeth crouched down in front of him. “Just think for a moment. Does he have anywhere he goes when he’s upset? Old stomping grounds? Where does he like to drive?”

        Victor tried to think it over, running through all the places Henry could possible go to, but Justine was right. Henry didn’t really go many places he couldn’t walk besides, like, the grocery store. His stomach churned unpleasantly. “Does he even want us following him?” He tried to ask through his burning throat. “Maybe he wants to be alone?”

        Elizabeth frowned, but was quickly cut off by Justine. “Okay, you know what. That’s it.”

        Something snagged onto the back of his pjs and Victor yelped as he found himself being yanked to his feet by the scruff of the neck, like a baby kitten. He stumbled as he tried to regain footing before Justine pushed herself into his face, forcing him flat against the wall.

        “What the absolute fuck do you think you’re doing, Frankenstein?”

        “Justine!” Elizabeth gasped. “What are you-”

        Justine shoved a slender finger into Victor’s chest. “Henry is your best friend or, at least, he’s supposed to be, and you’ve been treating him like a piece of shit for weeks! You know he’s been having panic attacks? Like actual, public panic attacks?”

        “I-” Victor felt his lungs constricting again, folding in on themselves like a dying flower, “I didn’t think-”

        “Yeah, you’re right you didn’t think. You didn’t do anything.” Justine’s voice was steady and even, but even in the dim light of the hall, Victor could see the red that had begun to invade her usually pale cheeks. “For god’s sake, do you even care about him?”

        “Of course, I do.” Victor protested weakly. “That’s why- that’s why I can’t be around him. I’m ruining him, Justine.”

        Justine raised an eyebrow. “Listen Victor, I know thinking about yourself as some kind of Byronic hero-type makes it easier to justify your shitty behavior, but news flash asshole, you’re not Dorian Fucking Gray! You’re just a shitty guy with stunted emotions and a genius IQ and the worst case of untreated ADHD I’ve ever seen.” Justine shoved her finger farther into his chest and Victor winced. “You think you’re a bad person. Well, congrats on figuring it out. Your best friend since childhood is somewhere out there, probably thinking you hate him because you don’t know how to tell him you’re gay and now is the time to man up and go find him.” Justine pulled away and stepped back to stand by a shocked Elizabeth. “You think you’re a bad person, then that means you have an obligation to do something about it. Get dressed.”

        Victor stood stock-still against the wall. If his headache was bad before, it was pounding now. “Aren’t you supposed to be the nice lesbian in the house?” He finally managed to stutter out.

        “Oh, I’m very nice. When I’m not dealing with little bitches.”

        Victor shot a look to Elizabeth who shrugged helplessly. Keeping one hand on the wall to support himself and his eyes on Justine, he backed up towards his room.

        Just before he closed the door, he heard Elizabeth speak.

        “Jesus, Justine, how come you’ve never done  that  in the bedroom?”

        Victor slammed the door shut. Tonight was not the night to be traumatized by his sister’s sex life.

        It took longer than Victor would have liked to get ready as, despite the new shot of adrenaline running through his still unbearably itchy skin, he had to stop every few seconds to convince his body not to slam the self-destruct button. When he finally stumbled downstairs, fifteen minutes later, Elizabeth and Justine were waiting at the door, keys in hand.

        “Here.” Justine shoved a 50 oz jug of applesauce into his hands. “Baby food for the baby.”

        “I’m not a-”

        “So where am I driving us?”

        Victor hesitated, trying to run in his head all the places he associated with Henry. Mostly it was a lot of bookstores, scenic drives, national parks. Maybe he’d gone to find a tree to curl under so he could listen to the birds singing warbles or whatever he did when he was looked for poetic inspiration or comfort. Victor glanced to Elizabeth. “How upset was he? When he left?”

        Elizabeth grimaced. “Bad. Like, really bad.”

        “Okay.” Victor took a hard breath and snatched his backpack from the kitchen table. “I know where he is. I can get us there.”

        He held out his hands for the keys, only to have Justine pull them back. “Can you even drive?”

        “Ish.”

        “I can drive, if you give me directions.” Elizabeth piped up.

        “No. No, you can’t, you just think you can.” Justine glanced to the keys in her hand. “Shit.”

        “What?”

        “I really hate driving.”

        “Man up, Justine.” Victor mumbled under his breath as he started for the door.

        “Annnddd he’s back.” Elizabeth grinned at him and ruffled his hair. Victor ducked out the way and shot her a poisonous look.

        “This is the first time my hair’s been clean in three months, don’t mess it up.”

        Justine groaned. “Okay honestly, I think I preferred sick and miserable Victor. We’ve just created a monster now.”

        Victor rolled his eyes then leaned back against the wall again as soon as he realized what a fundamentally bad idea letting his vision roam was. He clutched the applesauce container to his chest. “So, I’m driving?”

        “The day I let you drive my car is the day I die, Victor.” Justine snapped. “Go get in the backseat.”

        “You don’t have a backseat though? You drive a truck.”

        Which is exactly how Victor found himself sitting in the bed of Justine’s truck, clutching on for dear life as he valiantly tried to not lose the mass amounts of applesauce he’d choked down. He almost succeeded too. Almost. God, if there was a god this was almost certainly his punishment for existence, Victor reflected, as the suburbs melted into deeper woods and the familiar hum of automated lights faded to a quiet, impenetrable and submerging. The feeling was almost akin to what Victor imaged drowning would be like. Silent, agonizing, slow, but peaceful in an unnerving, wrong way. A sign whipped by him, announcing Camp Bastion to be ten miles ahead.  The Most Beautiful Place on Earth!  the under-arching letters declared in cheerful green ink, stark against the passing headlights. Victor wrinkled his nose. Beautiful was not the word he’d use for it. He leaned over and banged the glass separating him from the truck’s interior. The window cracked and Elizabeth peered out at him.

        “We've got ten miles and then you’re going to take the right!” Victor yelled over the wind.

        Elizabeth nodded and relayed the information to Justine. She smirked as they hit a bump and Victor had to scramble to keep inside the bed. “How’s baby jail?” She asked.

        “Shut up.”

        The campsite was deserted. Victor couldn’t tell for certain, but the place seemed even more rundown than the last time he remembered seeing it, with caved in roofs on some of the more mossy cabins and fire pit ash covering every available surface. Then again, maybe it had always looked like that. He hadn’t exactly been taking in the scenery that night he’d accompanied his dad out here to pick  Henry  up.

        Victor shuttered. Elizabeth placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

        “Yeah. Yeah, just,” Victor glanced towards the decrepit thing that was Cabin 14, “bad memories.”

        “Hey!” Justine shouted. The old man on the porch glanced up from his newspaper. Victor didn’t have the brain cells to start wondering why this man was sitting out on the porch at 10:30 at night doing a crossword, but something about him was naturally off-putting.

        “Have you seen a young man pass through here?” Justine asked. “‘Bout ye high, blond, probably crying.”

        The older man chewed on the cigarette in mouth. “Yup. Rented a cabin to him about three hours ago.”

        “Great!” Victor interjected. He stumbled over to the porch. “Where is he? Which cabin?”

        “Oh, he left.”

        “Left?” Victor felt a surge of dread invade his chest.

        “Yeah. Seemed in a real hurry about it too.” The man replied as he shrugged and readjusted his newspaper, clearly indicating that the conversation was over. When he shifted, something shiny caught Victor’s eye.

        “What’s that?”

        “Hm.” The older man turned over his wrist to display a watch, one engraved with constellations and little stars, cardinal points around the wrist. Victor’s blood ran hot and cold in the same breath.

        “Where did you get that?”

        “Bargained for it.”

        “Henry wouldn’t have just given you that.” Something in his voice had obviously gotten Elizabeth’s attention, as she came to stand by his side. “How. Did you. Get that.” Victor advanced a step with each word, crowding in on the man. He looked unimpressed. Probably because Victor still looked like a strong breeze could knock him over, killing him instantly.

        “Your friend traded it to me for the room.” The man shrugged again.

        Victor glared at the man. “Okay.” He struggled for a moment to get his bag off of his shoulders and rummaged through it. He pulled out a bone saw. “I want that back.”

        “Holy shit, Victor, where did you get that?!” Elizabeth yelled.

        “Give me. The watch.” Victor advanced farther forward.

        “No, seriously where did you get that?!”

        “Now.” Victor grabbed the older man’s wrist and pressed the saw against it. The older man was looking much less unimpressed now. “Either give me the watch or I’m going to take your hand.”

        “Justine!” Elizabeth yelled back to the other girl, who shook her head.

        “Oh,” the old man’s voice shook and he smiled nervously, “you mean this watch?”

        Victor snatched the timepiece as it was offered and forced himself to walk as straight as he could back to the car. Behind him, he could hear the old man run back into the main cabin, slamming the door behind him. Victor climbed into the trunk and looked expectantly to Justine and Elizabeth who stared back, horrified.

        “Let’s go before he calls the police.” Victor prompted as he restored the bone saw into the inner pouch of his backpack.

As the truck roared to life once more, Victor fastened Henry’s watch around his own wrist.

 

* * *

 

        Jascha rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, hoping that the image of Henry that stood before him would disappear with it. Henry persisted. Henry was a wreck, even by Jascha’s standards. He looked like broken glass had been shot across his face, and his right arm was pretty torn up. He was shaking, soaked, and looked as though he’d been awake for three days straight.

        “H-Henry…?” Jascha whispered.

        “...Can I come in?” Henry’s voice was frail.

        Jascha looked over his shoulder, thinking briefly about what Henry would think if he saw Ernest, who had once again returned to his room to steal his quilt. A trend was developing that whenever Ernest got stressed, he didn’t like being left alone. Jascha had fallen asleep at his desk reading, and the small lamp was still on. He looked back at Henry. He felt like Ernest wouldn’t want to leave Henry outside like this, even if he was upset. He opened the door so Henry could come in.

        “Thanks,” Henry said, his volume a little louder. Jascha led him to the bathroom and turned on the lights, hoping that Ernest was exhausted enough to sleep through it. Once they were alone in the bathroom Jascha closed the door.

        “What happened?” He asked.

        “Was there someone in your bed?” Henry’s voice was shaky. Jascha pulled the first aid kit down from one of the cabinets.

        “No,” Jascha said. He couldn’t stomach trying to explain Ernest to Henry. “What happened?”

        “It was a tree. It came out of nowhere,” his shoulders quivered. “I- My car is fucked. I just need a place to stay for the night.”

        “Why here?” Jascha opened up the bottle of antiseptic and started cleaning off Henry’s face. He also ran the tap until the water was steaming, giving Henry a hot compress made from a washcloth to hold on his arm.

        “There’s no one here,” Henry trembled. “No one that...cares.”

        Jascha pulled back from his work on Henry’s face, meeting his gaze. The man had tears running down his cheeks and blood running down his brow. His hair was soaked, both by water and by blood. His body was shivering violently from the early stages of shock, or possibly from hypothermia.

        “Henry...What’s up?” Jascha’s brow furrowed. He didn’t “care,” per se, but he was concerned.

        “I- It was…” his voice broke and he buried his face in his hands. “Victor. I’m losing him, and Elizabeth, and everyone who’s ever loved me, and I’m never going to get them back,” he gasped for air.

        “Shh, quiet. The other guys are asleep.” Jascha whispered, awkwardly patting Henry on the shoulder.

        “...I wish the car accident had just killed me,” his voice spiked. “I just want to die! It’s what my parents would have wanted anyway.”

        “Shh, shh,” Jascha listened for Ernest stirring. “Here, sit up. Let me finish patching you up.” He pushed Henry’s shoulders gently until he was upright, wiping the tears off his face with a towel. Henry was sobbing now, and Jascha knew they were living on borrowed time until Ernest heard. “Hey, I’m gonna start a shower for you. I think getting clean will help.”

        Jascha mostly wanted the white noise of the shower to act as a mask for all the noise Henry was making. He let him curl in on himself as he started the water running, making sure it was hot enough to warm him up. He rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt and tested the water one more time before he turned back to Henry.

        “Are you able to stand?” Henry shook his head. “Can you, uh...you know?” Jascha gestured to his clothes. Another head shake. “Okay. Cool, cool. Alright. Is it okay if I, um…” Henry nodded weakly.

        Jascha peeled off Henry’s cardigan first, placing it an empty clothes basket. Then he removed Henry’s shoes and socks. He frowned, realizing that the easy parts were done. He gingerly undid all of the buttons on Henry’s shirt, which required more dexterity than his fingers were used to. Henry got his left arm out of the sleeve okay, but Jascha had to slowly roll the sleeve off of his right arm, minding the wounds and the glass that was still imbedded in his flesh.

        “Listen, I’m going get some tweezers and grab those. It’ll hurt a bit, but I need you to be quiet. Can you do that?” Jascha said slowly. Henry nodded, but didn’t meet his eyes.

        Jascha wiped down the tweezers with alcohol, letting them sit for a minute. Jascha picked the smallest piece to start. He gripped the first shard firmly, causing Henry to wince. As he drew it out, Henry made tortured groans, gripping Jascha’s shoulder with his left arm so tightly that it actually hurt. Jascha placed the glass in the sink.

        “See? Not so bad.” Jascha tried to smile. Henry slumped forward against him, shivering and crying. Jascha patted him again, trying his best not to be awkward. “I need you to sit up again. I have to get the other ones.

        “...Other ones?” Henry’s voice rose a pitch. “There- there are more?”

        “I’m sorry. There’s at least two more pieces.” Henry moaned into his shoulder, but sat up. Clean blood ran from his arm where the glass once was.

        Jascha got the second one without trouble, but the third was bigger and deeper. He had an awkward grip on Henry’s arm since he allowed him to lean against him, the pain having gotten to a point that made him dizzy. He got his tweezers around the last shard and had to wiggle it to get it to loosen, causing deep wells of blood to form in his arm. Jascha could see a flash of bone under the blood, and the torn muscles. He was bleeding substantially, and let out a scream into Jascha’s chest as the final shard came free with a moist pop. Jascha placed the tweezers and the shard on the sink, and held Henry tightly until he caught his breath. He could swear he heard the bed creak.  

        “Okay. Good job. You like, super need stitches.” Jascha knew Ernest knew how to do those, since he had EMT training. He desperately didn’t want to cause Ernest more stress.

        “Not...right now,” Henry mumbled into his sweater. “I- I just want the bath right now. I can’t...no more. For now.” Jascha nodded, though Henry couldn’t see.

        “Alright. No problem. Let me, uh,” Jascha helped him sit up. “Is it...okay for me to help you take off your pants? If you want to try-”

        “Just do it,” Henry shook his head. He looked paler than usual, and had dark circles under his eyes.

        Jascha undid the top button of Henry’s fly and swallowed hard. He wasn’t emotionally prepared for this level of intimacy, even if it was a medical emergency. He could hardly handle seeing himself naked, let alone another. He unzipped the fly, trying his best not to look at what he was doing. The whole situation made him feel weird, and not just because he was being called upon to act as a nurse. He sort of shimmied Henry’s jeans off, trying his best not to jostle or hurt him anymore than he already had. He looked at Henry’s face, making a point to avoid having his eyes wander.

        “Underwear on, or off?” He asked. He braced himself. He knew they had to go eventually, since his clothes were filthy. It was more a question of whether or not it had to be now and he had to be present.

        “Off is fine.” Henry didn’t seem fully aware of the situation.

        “Y-yeah. Yup.” Jascha took a deep breath in and peeled off Henry’s boxers gracelessly, as he wasn’t looking at what he was doing. He hooked Henry’s left arm around his shoulder and helped him into the shower. The water running into the wounds drew another loud cry from Henry, but he was quiet after a few minutes. Jascha helped him to soap up without getting any in his wounds, and washed his hair for him. He let Henry sit under the stream until he stopped shivering and the color returned to his face.

        It was then that Jascha heard the knocking. He had been so consumed by adrenaline that he hadn’t noticed until now, especially since it was soft. He handed Henry the washcloth and started to move towards the door.

        “...scha? Jascha, are you okay?” Ernest’s voice was nearly too quiet to be heard over the water. “Jascha? Jascha, I’m coming in…”

        “No!” Jascha lunged to the door just as Ernest opened it, startling both he and Henry. He tried to block Ernest’s line of sight.

        “Jascha! What’s going on? I thought I heard yelling...Is someone in there…?” He looked at Jascha, who had Henry’s blood all over his sweatshirt and hands. “Oh my god...Are you hurt? Let me in!” Ernest tried to push past him.

        “No, I’m fine, please go back to bed...”

        “Ernest?” Henry asked weakly from the tub.

        “Henry?!” Ernest shoved Jascha out of the way. “Oh dear god. Henry, what happened to you? Why are you here?” He ran back into Jascha’s room and grabbed the fancier medical kit he’d loaned him. “Let me see your arm; you need stitches.”

        Jascha stood to one side, allowing Ernest to take over. He washed his hands and started cleaning up the mess on the floor while Ernest started patching up Henry’s arm and face.

        “Is it okay if I stay here tonight?” Henry asked Ernest softly.

        “Yes. Yes, of course. You can have my room. It’s just behind that door.” Ernest shut off the shower and patted his arm dry before applying the stitches. He was done within fifteen minutes, and then bandaged him up much more neatly than Jascha would have. Henry’s agony had given way to exhaustion as he let Ernest help him up out of the shower. Jascha took hold of him from there and Ernest dried him off.

        “I have pajamas you can borrow. Come on; let’s get you in bed. Jascha, can you help carry him?”

        Within another twenty minutes Henry was in a clean set of pajamas and tucked into bed. Ernest had him take a couple painkillers and drink some water.

        “Do you need anything else?” He asked. Henry shook his head weakly, his eyes already closed. Ernest refilled the glass and left it on the bedside table. “I’ll check on you again in the morning. Shout if you need anything. We’ll try to get you to the doctor tomorrow, too.”

        Henry was already asleep before Ernest finished talking. He was too exhausted to care about anything to do with his health, even though his arm still hurt.

        Ernest and Jascha spent another hour cleaning the bathroom before returning to bed. They lay awake beside each other for several minutes, until Ernest rolled onto his side. Jascha was shaking. He hadn’t seen that much blood since he’d awoken in Victor’s lab. Watching Ernest stitch up his wounds reminded him painfully of his own body, stitched together. He tried not to think about it. He felt his skin crawl, and was aware of each ugly seam. They ached, like rubber bands wrapped too tightly around him. His breathing grew shallow as he felt that his lungs weren’t his and could give out at any moment. They were corpse’s lungs, after all. Who knew what their new expiration date was.

        He was pulled from his panic by the weight of Ernest’s hand on his chest. He opened his eyes and looked over at him, surprised to see him looking back.

        “You’re pretty messed up, huh?” Ernest said gently.

        “No,” Jascha said. “I’m...fine.” He couldn’t get himself to believe his own words.

        Ernest patted his chest lightly. “That’s bullshit. You’re shaking.”

        “I’ll be fine.” Jascha closed his eyes.

        “I once saw a guy break his leg, like, real bad. At a soccer game. I threw up on the field.” Ernest paused. “One of my friends sort of just, like, held me for a bit. And it helped me calm down.” Jascha could hear a trace of anxiety enter Ernest’s voice. “Like, not in a gay way or anything. Like in a teammates way. If you want, I don’t mind trying it. For you.”

        Jascha thought for a minute. He didn’t object to touch. He hadn’t really thought of it, however, as soothing. But he felt pretty bad. And having Ernest’s hand helped ground him in some semblance of reality. He turned slowly onto his side, and tensed as he felt Ernest wrap his arms around him from behind. He felt Ernest slide one arm under his head and the other around his chest, holding him closely against himself. Through his sweater he could feel Ernest’s heartbeat- it was quick, as though he’d been running. He felt a wave of something unfamiliar wash over him. It forced him to relax into Ernest’s arms rather than tense away, and he felt warmth radiate from where Ernest’s arm touched his chest to the rest of his body. Ernest pressed his face against the back of his head, sending another ripple of sensation through Jascha’s body. He felt the heat settle below stomach and between his legs. He was confused. And afraid. He tried not to think about it and hoped he would feel normal again by tomorrow.

 


	12. Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry talks to Ernest. Victor searches. Jascha has some questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! As always, thanks for reading! We love hearing from you, so leave us a message/kudos!
> 
> Trigger warnings in this section for internalized homophobia and brief descriptions of injuries.

        In the morning, everything hurt. Henry tried to prop himself up in Ernest’s bed, but his muscles, bones, and skin screamed for him to stop. He was vaguely aware, that there was someone else in the room rustling through a drawer. He let his head hit the pillow again and he groaned.

        “Oh, good, you’re finally awake,” Ernest returned to the bed and stood over Henry’s weak form.

        “I feel-” Henry began to say.

        “-Like someone hit you with a car?” he interjected.

        “Like I hit myself with a car,” he sighed and closed his eyes and tipped back his chin, exposing his throat.

        “If it’s, like, okay, I’m going to check up on your bandages and stitching, okay?” Ernest sat on the edge of the bed and started to pull back the blanket. When Henry didn’t protest, he set to his work. The bandages needed to be changed, so he did, but Henry would never look like himself again. “We should probably get you to a hospital. There’s no telling what could have gotten into your body in the crash or the walk over here. There’s only so much I can-”

        “No. Please no. Anything but that. I can’t,” Henry’s eyes shot open and he reached out for Ernest’s arm.  

        “No?” Ernest cocked his head, “There are people there would could help you a lot more than I can.”

        “It’s just, you know, there are so many people who would be worried,” Henry tensed. “They could tell my father,”

        “I don’t think they can. You know, doctor patient-confidentiality. Stuff like that,” Ernest’s voice was soft and shallow, but it still cut straight through Henry’s flesh.

        “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Henry let go of Ernest. “People don’t know it’s a problem. He’s a big-shot, people will notice. He’ll find out.”

        “Henry-”

        “Don’t. It’s not your fault. I’ll manage just fine,”

        “No, you need real care. I’m just gonna be a physical therapist. This is more. I can’t believe the police just, like, let you walk away,” Ernest grabbed a bottle of water from the minifridge and handed it to Henry.

        “I lied.”

        “You lied?”

        “I said Victor was going to pick me up,” Henry took a sip of water and the muscles in his chest ached as he swallowed.  Henry never wanted Victor to see him ever again. The shame crept up through his spine and into his lungs and stomach.

         “Did you tell him where you are?”

        “No,” Henry answered.

        “No?”

        “No,” Henry’s voice was as even as a windless day. “He hates me. I only make everything worse for him. I should have left years ago. There’s no reason for me to inflict myself upon him anymore.”

        “Dude, I’ve heard him talk about you. I don’t think that’s true. Why did you come here?” he asked. Henry sensed the desperation of wanting to change the subject away from his older brother.

        “I know Jascha,” Henry said, simply.

        “Oh? I didn’t know he knew anyone outside the frat,” Ernest smiled a little bit and it made Henry feel sicker. Lies after lies after lies. “Glad to know he’s getting out there a bit. He’s so shy. Where did you meet him?”

        That was exactly the wrong question to ask, so he thought of a lie. “I met him at a concert. Itzhak Perlman was playing Vieuxtemps 5, I think.” That’s good and vague.

        “I didn’t know he was, like, into music like that,” Ernest said.

        “Oh, by the way, it’s really great that you’ve gotten with Jascha. He’s really sweet. You guys seem really great for each other,” Henry smiled ruefully.

        “What? Together? No! No way, man! I’m not...you know...I’m not a f-”

        “Don’t. Just don’t say that word, okay?” Henry interrupted him before he could finish.

        “I don’t like...dicks...or whatever it is that gay guys like. I had a girlfriend, like, a super hot girlfriend,”

        “I’ve had a girlfriend,” Henry looked at Ernest with his eyebrows raised. “I’m still pretty gay.”

        “But like, you’re all artsy and fuck. Dude, jocks can’t be gay. I can't...I can’t lose my team. They’re all I’ve got. Just them and Jascha,” he was starting to hyperventilate a little bit and Henry did not have the energy to pull him back.

        “Okay, okay,” Henry said, trying to diffuse the situation, “Breathe. In through your nose and out through your mouth. What’s your team’s problem with gay guys? Like, specifically?”

        “They’re just like...weak and feminine and stuff,” Ernest sat down.

        “My man,” Henry laughed a little bit, “What’s manlier than two men?”

        “There was this guy, Rafael. He was a really great dude,” Ernest stared past Henry. “A really great teammate...our captain. He always had our backs, you know. But like, one day, some LAX jackasses found out that he’d been fucking one of their linesmen...I… the things they said...did…”

        “You don’t have to tell me. I know,” Henry reached out to Ernest comfortingly.

        “I’m not like that. I can’t...I can’t deal with that. Everyone would hate me, even Jascha—especially Jascha. Dude, I can’t handle being in that much danger, you know? I just can’t.”

        “People who matter don’t care,” this was way more taxing than he thought it would be. “Sure, there’s going to be bad people, but they can shove it. There are always going to be people that have your back.”

        “I can’t be like Rafi. He was so small and defenseless and weak and there were so many of them,” Ernest held his head in his hands and shook. Henry didn’t know what to do.

        “Nothing is going to change about you if you decide this is how you are. If anything, you’ll feel better. You won’t have to struggle anymore,” Henry found the strength to haul himself out of the bed and hobble over to Ernest’s chair.

        “But people will think-” he began to stutter.

        “What do you think of me, Ernest?” Henry placed a hand on his shoulder, partially to comfort him, partially to support himself. “It’s pretty obvious that I’m very, very not straight. And you’ve known since I was 14 and living with you, and you’ve never seemed bothered by it.”

        “I’m not,” Ernest insisted, “But it’s you, and you’ve just..always been like this, dude,”

        “Exactly,” Henry sighed, “It’s okay. Your family loves you. Your team loves you. We’ll have your back.”

        Ernest looked like he was about to cry or hit a wall. He held his hands in fists so tight his nails made marks on his palms. He jaw was clenched so tightly that Henry could see the tension in his face.

        “I know it’s hard. It’s really, really hard. But it’s okay,” Henry said.

        “I...think I need to be alone, dude,” Ernest said through his teeth.

        “I can leave,” Henry said as he tried to lean down to grab his borrowed shoes. His back and thighs were not ready for that type of exertion and he fell to his knees with a small sound.

        “No, no. I’ll go for a walk or something. You..uhh...you need to rest, my dude,” Ernest stood up and helped Henry back to the bed.

        “I’m sorry, I didn't think this is where our conversation was going to go,” Henry laid down again, flat on his back.

        “Me neither,” Ernest was unusually quiet.

        “Did it help at all?” Henry asked.

        “I don’t know.” Ernest gently closed the door.

 

* * *

 

        They searched the English center. Then the dining hall. Stopped by the gym. College museum. The trails behind Winn Dixie. The community garden. At one point, Justine had the brilliant idea to return to the BDSM store, which proved to be a mistake after the owner recognized Victor and made him pay, in cash, for the merchandise he’d accidentally knocked off the shelf while trying to buy copious amounts of handcuffs and rope. They asked if he’d made up with his boyfriend while paying. Victor had to assure them that he and Henry weren’t dating.

        “Bad break?” The girl behind the counter said sympathetically. “I’m sorry. Maybe you should try dating someone more in your league next time.”

        “What do you mean by that?”

        She wouldn’t explain.

        Victor considered breaking out the bone saw again.

        "Anything?” Elizabeth asked as Victor stalked out of the store, jaw clenched tight enough to crack his teeth.

        “No.” He forced out. “Nothing.”

        From her place perched on the hood of the trunk, Justine continued to scroll through her phone. She sighed deeply. “Did we want to start trying food places? It is getting towards lunch, maybe he’ll be around the strip mall?”

        Victor pushed his back against the truck, letting it take on all of his weight. “No, he doesn’t like the mall. Too stressful.”

        “And he still isn’t picking up his phone?” Elizabeth asked.

        “Nope.” Justine flipped her phone shut. “No response to texting or calls.”

        Victor didn’t dare look to his own phone. Earlier in the night, he’d broken a personal policy of his and turned the sound on and up to the loudest setting possible. He’d even picked out the most obnoxious, attention-grabbing song he could think of to use for his ringtone. There was no way he’d ever miss Barbie Girl playing at full volume, but so far. Nothing. Not even a text. Of course, that made sense. Henry was within his rights to never want to talk to him ever again, but…

        Victor was worried. Victor was really, really worried.

        “Victor.” A hand came down on his own and Victor startled violently enough to slip. Elizabeth steadied him, just barely saving him from colliding with the pavement.

        “What?” Victor struggled to pull his muddled thoughts back into some kind of order. “Did Henry call?”

        He checked his phone and saw no new messages.

        “No, we still haven’t heard anything.” Elizabeth’s voice was back to that special worried kind of misery and Victor knew that meant that he was slipping again. He blinked harder and tried to straighten himself against the hood of the car.

        “Okay, where are we looking next?” He looked to Elizabeth then Justine as the two exchanged a glance.

        “Well…” Elizabeth began, but Justine cut her off.

        “We’re going to check the English building again just in case Henry looped back there. It’s about one now, so if he was going to classes, that’s where he’d be. And you,” Justine grabbed his shoulders and steered him into the passenger seat of the truck, “are going to go back home.”

        “What?” Victor cried. “But we still haven’t found him!”

        “We know.” Elizabeth said comfortingly. “And we’re going to keep looking. But, Vic, we’ve been at this for almost twenty hours and you’re still sick. You need to go home and sleep.”

        “No, what I need to do is find Henry.” Victor shot Justine a pleading look. “Weren’t you just saying that I needed to do something? How can I do something if I’m under house arrest?”

        “You’re not under house arrest, you overdramatic fuck.” Justine pushed him gently, causing Victor to fall back into the seat. Her voice, though still harsh, had turned somewhat caring and concerned in the last hour or so, leaving Victor to wonder just how fucked up he must look right now. “We need someone to watch the house and Elizabeth’s right. You’re still sick. Go home, eat some toast, and call us as soon as you hear or see anything that has to do with Henry.”

        But he didn’t even feel that sick. Or, well, he definitely did feel that sick, but it had all turned inward within the last few hours. No barfing, no fever, no nothing. And if his insides still threatened to spill out his throat and if his skin still crawled like a collection of spiders digging into his flesh and if his vision wafted in and out with each breath, well, that was all what he deserved anyways.

        Victor didn’t want to beg, but he could certainly try to plead with Elizabeth, if only she would pay attention to him. She, however, had already returned to the task of constant phone checking.

        “Victor.” Justine said. “I’m driving you home. Elizabeth, you search the strip of stores here and I’ll be back for you in thirty minutes.”

        It seemed he didn’t have much of a choice.

        The ride back to the apartment was silent. Victor fiddled with whatever was nearest to him, circling from his nails to the phone to the skin of his cuticles. His hand strayed once or twice to mess with the watch around his wrist, but he forced himself not to touch it. That was Henry’s and Victor knew it was precious to him. If he started messing with it, he’d break it into pieces; gears and gizmos and springs, and Victor wasn't confident enough to guarantee he could rebuild a watch.

        He sighed and pressed his face against the cool window, watching as the world ticked by in uneven steps. Focus, focus. Why was it so hard to focus all the time? Well, actually that one wasn’t too hard to answer, but it was still too frustrating to deal with.

        Victor screwed his eyes shut. The urge to scream had resurfaced with a fiery passion, overwhelming and suffocating, but he swallowed it back, if only for the sake of Justine. He’d seen how his screaming scared everyone around him and he couldn’t risk being the cause of someone else’s suffering right now. Or ever again, for that matter.

        He was a bad person. And now he knew he had to own up to that and change, but as long as it remained truth, he was in the wrong. He was a wrong. A wrong in the world, a wrong in his family, and a wrong for Henry.

        Where was he?

        I’M A BARBIE GIRL IN A BARBIE WORLD! Victor jumped near to out of his skin, hands scrambling for his phone. LIFE IN PLASTIC! IT’S FANTASTIC!

        “Henry?” Victor struggled to control his breathing as he clutched the phone to his ear. The plastic dug horribly into his skin, the shredded case scratching his cheek painfully. “Henry, is that you?”

        A long pause. “Hello, I’m sorry is this a Mr.” there was a ruffling of papers, “Frankenstyle?”

        “Frankenstein.” Victor corrected. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Justine mouthing, but he was too preoccupied with holding the phone as close to his face as possible to care. A small amount of blood spilled over onto his hand.

        “Frankaline?”

        “Frankenstein.”

        Another pause. “Frankenstone?”

        “Does it matter?!” Victor finally exploded. “Why are you calling me? Where’s Henry?”

        The woman on the other end of the line huffed. “Don’t get snippy with me, young man, I don’t put up with all that.”

        Victor bit his tongue. “I’m sorry.” He ground out. “Yes, I’m Mr. Frankenstone. How can I help you?”

        More shuffling papers. A cough. “I’m with the county sheriff’s office, we’re looking to check in on a Mr. Clerval and you were listed as the person who picked him up from the crash site.”

        Victor saw more than felt his hands go still on his lap, like watching a stranger’s body through his own eyes. “Crash?” That wasn’t his voice. That wasn’t how he sounded. “What crash?”

        Shuffling. Shuffling. “Well, our records show that Mr. Clerval was involved in a car crash on Parkinson Drive last night at around 3:30 am. He collided with a tree, which caused extensive damage along one side of the car. Our officers responded to the scene and an ambulance was called, but Mr. Clerval declined treatment. He said that you were going to pick him up and since you are his emergency contact, the EMTs cleared him. In cleaning up the scene, however, one of the road crew noticed that Mr. Clerval had left his phone behind. Would you be able to get in touch with him for us and tell him that we have his personal objects at the station, ready for pick-up? It’s alright if you come pick up the objects as well. Since Mr. Clerval was injured, I expect he’ll be on bed rest for several weeks.”

        As the secretary spoke, a strange sense of calmness washed over Victor. “Oh. Yeah. Okay, I’ll let him know. Thanks for calling.”

        Victor hung up the phone and set it aside.

        “Who was that?” Justine asked insistently. “Victor? Are you bleeding? Why is your cheek bleeding?”

        And that was the point at which Victor started screaming.

* * *

 

        Jascha awoke around 11AM. As he blinked awake he expected to find Ernest still beside him, but then he remembered it was a Monday. He’d have woken up much earlier; 8AM at the latest. Part of him thought he might skip practice and sleep in after the thing with Henry, but Ernest was dedicated. He threw the blankets off and sat up, rubbing the back of his head. His hair was down to his shoulders at this point. It was ridiculous. He needed to wear it up half the time just to keep it out of his eyes. He got up and stretched, cringing as his joints crackled. He never quite trusted them to stay together. But he supposed that, after three and a half weeks, he was probably pretty sturdy.

        He walked over to the bathroom and did his usual routine: Shower in the dark, brush his teeth, comb his mess of hair. Shave? He’d had to start doing that again in the past couple weeks. Again. It was funny, how he was beginning to get trickles of memories from what he could only assume was his previous life. Like two days ago. He’d been told to sign his name on a housemate agreement, since he’d been nominated as a “real” member of a frat. He’d signed a full name, first and last. He was apparently Jascha P. Simonis. He’d freaked out about it for a whole day. Obviously not to anyone else; he couldn’t afford to have anyone realize that he was living under such strange circumstances. Jascha Simonis. He was still afraid to google it. But he was working up to it.

        Once he was done cleaning himself up, he knocked on the door that connected Ernest’s room to the bathroom.

        “Henry?” He asked. “Can I come in?”

        “Yeah, sure,” Henry said. He sounded almost normal.

        Jascha opened the door and walked in. Henry was propped up on pillows, and his bandages had been changed. He had some color back, but he still looked more or less like a disaster. Jascha came in and sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing out the blankets.

        “How are you feeling?” He asked.

        “Like I got hit by a tree,” Henry smiled weakly. “How do you feel?”

        “Like I’m a human jigsaw puzzle,” Jascha smiled. “The pain is better. I still look like I got sent through a blender.”

        Henry shrugged. “You look pretty good to me.”

        Jascha blushed a little. He wasn’t used to talking to people who knew what he was. Or what he’d really looked like before. “Thanks.”

        “How’s the frat life?” Henry asked jovially.

        “It’s okay. They, uh, tried to haze me. Last weekend.”

        “Like, give you alcohol poisoning hazing?” Henry’s eyebrows raised.

        Jascha laughed nervously. “No. It was more, like...Basically, one of them got it in his head that I was a virgin. He got some girls and tried to get me to, uh...you know.”

        “Wait, like have sex with them?” Henry looked a little surprised.

        “Yeah, basically.” Jascha paused. “I didn’t, though.” He felt his face flush. He could tell that Henry was trying not to look too curious, but he did anyways. Jascha ran a hand through his hair awkwardly.

        “Why not?” Henry asked. Jascha weighed the pros and cons of having this conversation, and decided that of all people besides Ernest, Henry would be the least judgmental.

        “They were drunk. I was too. I just...it wouldn’t be right. And this body,” he gestured to all of himself. “It’s not mine. I can’t. It would be disrespectful.”

         “It’s yours now, though. It would be rotting otherwise,” Henry said softly. Jascha bristled, and Henry must have noticed. “I’m sorry. That was probably not what you wanted to hear.”

        “I...try not to think about it. Ever.” Jascha had been thinking about it not more than ten minutes ago. “But other than that, living here has been pretty nice. The guys are cool, and I’m pretty close with Ernest now. He helped me clean up some of my stitches when I first moved in.”

        “Ernest is sweet. He always has been,” Henry smiled. “He can be a complete idiot, but that’s just par for the Frankenstein course.” Jascha smiled too, thinking back to how pleasant it was to share a bed with Ernest. He always left the faintest smell of cinnamon on his sheets.

        “Can I ask you something?” Jascha asked, smile wavering as he thought of Victor.

        “Of course,” said Henry.

        “What happened between Ernest and his family?” Jascha’s voice was soft.

        Henry sighed. “It’s...long. And very much not my story to tell,” he paused. “You’ve met Victor. He can be a lot to handle.” Jascha nodded. “He was worse as a kid, if you can believe it. And I think it really took a toll on Ernest. I don’t know the specifics, but I know it got extremely bad in high school, and then Ernest got hurt-”

        “Britney. He calls his bad knee Britney.”

        “Uh, yeah. That. He had to leave school to have, like, three surgeries. And a lot of physical therapy,” another sigh. “Something happened between them when they were both at home, and Ernest just disappeared. I only have his number because I got it off Justine. He hasn’t willingly spoken to Victor or Elizabeth in, like, a year.”

        Jascha nodded. He wanted to kill Victor. He didn’t understand how anyone could cause Ernest harm when all he did was care about other people. He didn’t know who Elizabeth was, but he kind of hated her too. Maybe the only good  Frankensteins  were Ernest and the small Ernest in the picture by his bed.

        “Why do you like Victor? He’s a bad person,” Jascha said bitterly. He couldn’t rationalize how someone as kind as Henry would want someone as cruel as Victor.

        “He isn’t...He’s a good person who makes bad decisions. Like, a lot of bad decisions.” Henry said slowly. “And I really care about him. Cared. We grew up together.”

        “‘Cared’?” Jascha asked.

        “Yeah. Yeah, I think…” Henry wasn’t ready. “It’s complicated. I-I don’t want to talk about it right now.” He gave a pained smile. “I’m glad you and Ernest found each other. He’s a good kid, and it seems like you have a good friendship.”

        Jascha was concerned, but he smiled. It was hard not to when he thought about Ernest. “Ernest is pretty great. I want to ask him to let me shadow him at school.”

        “That sounds like a good idea. I think he’d be down for that.” Jascha’s face lit up a bit.

        “I’ll ask him. Do you know where he is? Practice should be done by now.”

        “Maybe he’s running late?” Henry looked away, as if he were hiding something.

        Jascha shook his head. “No, he follows a very strict schedule. I’m a little worried, actually.” His brow furrowed. “He wasn’t here when I woke up, and I know he isn’t at class since his bag is in my room. He didn’t say where he was going when he did your bandages?”

        Henry shook his head. “Just that he was going out. He should be back soon.”

        “Okay. Yeah, he’ll be back soon.” Jascha stood up. “I’m...gonna go. I want to borrow his textbooks and read a little.” He walked towards the door. “I’ll leave the doors open. Call if you need me.” He went back to his room.

        Alone, he gave into some of his worries. He knew last night had been weird. He understood now Ernest’s constant fear of him thinking he was gay, or weird, or something. He was afraid that he’d done something wrong last night, even though it had been Ernest who offered the physical contact. He hoped Ernest wasn’t upset with him. He had no idea what he’d do if Ernest was upset with him.


	13. Bonesaws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry found the glass. Victor talks to the police. Jascha is a pillar of strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! As always, we love it when you reach out. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter include gore and homophobia.

        Was it weird that Henry wanted to keep the shards of glass that had been imbedded in his arm? Ernest and Jascha left them in the sink after last night and had forgotten to clean it up. That was his blood, so he supposed it wasn’t really right or safe to let others clean it up for him. He felt a little better, as far as he could tell, but everything hurt and laying still in the bed only made moving that much worse.

        He could feel each individual joint move as he struggled to get up. He was hyper aware of the way his muscles and tendons stretched and pulled his bones. One step. Two steps. This is okay. He’s walking. This is fine. Three steps. Four steps. God, his thighs ached. He didn’t realize anything happened to his thighs. The ground was getting closer. Oh? Now he was on his knees. Great. He tried to push himself up. He hadn’t been able to do pushups as a perfectly healthy and active high schooler, never mind as a wounded, aching poet.

        This was fine. He could crawl. It’s not that big of a deal. His wrists hurt and the moment he put too much pressure on his right arm he wanted to scream, but he couldn’t because Jascha was studying and being a good student, unlike Henry who had missed... one day of class. It had only been one day. God. The past twenty-four hours felt like they had been an eternity. He should probably email his professors so they didn’t think he was just dropping the ball. But first, he had to get to the bathroom. He was reasonably certain he would be able to pull himself up using the cabinets.

        Five steps. Six steps. Seven. Were they really steps if he was crawling? What did one call those sorts of strides? He’d have to figure it out. Eight steps. Nine steps. Two more steps and he would be on the cool tile, but first he had to take a break. His spine ached. Should he go to the doctor if his spine hurt?  Victor had told him that spine injuries were bad. No. No, he couldn’t do that. Then his dad would know and he would die. He would just drop dead on the spot if he ever saw his father’s eyes again. Well, he would either die or he would claw them out of his sockets and feed them to their cats. Death had significantly fewer negative consequences. He had been sitting, hunched over, for three full minutes and his spine still didn’t feel any better.

        Ten steps. His shoulders and lats were so tight. He didn’t know his muscles were capable of being so tense. He tried to stretch, but it just hurt. God, he would do anything for a nice massage, like the type Victor used to give. They used to sit together, after school, and Victor would place his cool hands on his shoulders and all of his fear and panic would melt away like the rain.  Henry fell in love when he was twelve years old. That was before. Before his family found him out. Before Victor and Alphonse found him and took him in. Before the break with Ernest. Before.

        Victor had been so sweet and caring. The softness of his dark eyes filled- still filled Henry with wonder. He had bandaged Henry’s wounds and brought Henry water and food when he was unwell. He was always unwell as a child. Then he turned eighteen and everything was topsy-turvy. Henry became a model caretaker for Victor the scientist. What can he say, he learned from the best.

        He heard Jascha move in the room next door. “Меня зовут Яша,” he said, tongue dragging slightly on the strange pronunciation. “Я живой. Я человек.” Henry smiled to himself. Jascha was probably the most well adjusted person he knew at the moment and he was technically a reanimated corpse.

        Finally, eleven steps. Henry looked towards his watch. Why wasn’t it there? He never, ever, took off his watch. It was precious to him. It probably came off in the crash. Maybe something else? Bits of last night fluttered in and out of existence. He would probably remember once his head stopped ringing. In any case, he estimated it took him maybe twenty minutes to take eleven steps to reach the bathroom. When he went back to the bed he would make sure to do it in fifteen.

        He took a moment to rest against the tile. This was where he was bleeding last night. His blood had been on this floor. The bathwater had been stained pink even though he was only in it for maybe fifteen minutes. He remembers only flashes of what happened. He remembers his bright blood smeared on the porcelain, like the tracks a frog might make while fleeing a heron. He felt his fingers curl around a brass hanger. It hurt like hell to raise his arms above his head. He pulled and he wanted to scream, but he found his footing, unsure and unstable. He held the countertop so hard his nails turned white.

        His head spun so he kept it tucked against his chest. There was the glass. The first two looked much less imposing when they weren’t sticking out of his arm. The third, on the other hand, was a monster. It was two inches long with ragged edges and two thirds of it had been lodged in is muscle, against his bone. There was a hole in his arm now, fixed up with stitches and itched like hell. He dreamed that the wound would grow black with gangrene and fester with worms that would hatch into little black beetles. Then, some ecstatic doctor would be able to put their bone saw to good use to hack of his arm and each stroke that tore his humerus would be a sweet, sweet relief.

        He picked up the piece of glass with his fingertips. It was clean after all. That was terribly unsanitary of Ernest and Jascha. He hoped they had used gloves. Fluorescent light caught the edges on the shard and illuminated the edges with yellow. He pressed harder with his fingers and a tiny rivulet of blood flowed down the main ridge. His face itched. Why was he like this? He just had a perfectly normal conversation with Ernest and Jascha. He should be over it. He should be completely fine. It was his job to be completely fine. It he wasn’t fine, then no one was and their entire house dissolved into chaos.

        Henry knew, though; he knew he was rarely ever actually fine. But he seemed fine and that’s what mattered. He put the glass in the palm of his hand and leaned harder against the countertop. His shoulders screamed. He thought about the structure of that muscle and those lines and plains and all those science terms he would never be able to remember. If he could just cut the muscle out of his back and squish it in his hands. Then, he could put it back and it wouldn’t hurt anymore. That wasn’t something a fine person should think, but Henry was fine. Truly.

        He braced himself to face the light. His eyes would hurt at first because he had closed them and he was in the dark, but then his pupils would contract and it wouldn’t hurt anymore. It would be fine. He opened his eyes.

        That face. That face wasn’t his. He had freckles on his cheeks, not a cut held together with perfect, neat little stitches. He ran his finger along the line from the bridge of his nose by his right eye all the way down over his left cheekbone. Then there was a break of cool skin, sticky with sweat. A smaller wound, unstitched, marred his jawline. He didn’t notice he was screaming until he felt his back against the side of the tub and Jascha’s hands on his uninjured arm.

        He watched himself hovering in space. That face wasn’t his. That voice wasn’t his own.  He never sounded so small and afraid. He heard words but he didn’t know if they came from him or Jascha.  

        “It’s not mine. It’s not mine,” Henry thrashed against Jascha’s grip, but he was much stronger and kept him firmly in place.

        “Yes, it is. It’s okay. It’ll heal fine. It’s okay,” Jascha tried to calm him down, but it didn’t work. He could hear two people running up the stairs.

        “No!” the sound was high in his throat and it stung like fuzz of a flannel moth caterpillar. “My face! My face! That’s not my face!” Two other men grabbed him to help Jascha. One of them grabbed his wounded arm and pressed his fingers into the hole. Henry shrieked.

        “We can’t do this. I have to call Ernest,” one of the frat boys said and then Henry was out cold.

 

* * *

 

 

        This might actually be the thing that killed him. Of everything in the world, of everything he’d been through, of everything that he was, this might actually do it. Victor tried to take comfort in the fact that he was at least going out in an exciting kind of way, but considering his very potent, very intimate issues with death, dying decadently might just be worse than cancer.

        He brandished the bone saw in front of him. “-And if you do not tell me where the absolute  fuck  Henry Clerval is-”

        The officer behind the desk was, for the most part, unreactive, holding one hand in front of him in a motion that was obviously supposed to be non threatening and keeping the other hovering over his gun. “Sir, I’m going to need you to calm down.”

        “Please just taze him. Please just fucking taze him.” Justine said somewhere behind him as Victor yanked an additional scalpel from his pocket. Duel wielding. Nice. He was finally accomplishing his ten year old anime dreams.

        “Where is Henry?” He demanded. The blood pounding through his head made hearing his own voice a challenge, but he was pretty confident that he was being loud enough. Probably too loud if his track record of screaming meltdowns was anything to go off of.

        “Mr. Frankenstone-” The receptionist tried to inject.

        “Where is my goddamn roommate?!”

        “Sir, put down the saw or I will be forced to arrest you.” The officer repeated for probably the fifth time in the last ten minutes. Victor did not drop the saw.

        “Listen,” he also repeated, “it’s pretty simple. I’m obviously deranged and I’m holding a saw and a scalpel. I know how to use both of these instruments to inflict severe bodily harm. You can make me drop these things if you just tell me where Henry is, but until you do, I fully intend to draw blood and I honestly don’t care if it’s yours or mine.”

        The officer gripped the gun fully. Victor held his saw more tightly.

        “Okay,” the officer said, “here’s what’s going to happen.” He took a step towards Victor, who braced himself. God, he did not want to die tonight, he really did not want to die tonight. “I’m going to release the gun.”

        “Okay.”

        “You’re going to drop the saw and small knife.”

        “Scalpel.” Victor corrected, taking another step back.

        “And then I’m going to arrest you.”

        “I don’t agree with that part, but continue.”

        Another step. Another retreat. Victor wasn’t sure whether Justine was still lingering behind him or not, but he sure hoped she’d had the sense to make a hasty exit.

        The officer yanked the radio off of his shoulder. “And then, and only then, will I send out a missing person report for your friend.”

        “Okay.” Victor nodded. “Counter.” He pressed the scalpel against his wrist. “Do it now or I will kill you, me, and everyone in this room except Justine because I feel morally obligated to keep her alive on the basis that she once gave me applesauce.”

        “...What is wrong with you?” The receptionist said after a brief pause.

        “Like way too many fucking things.” Victor pressed the scalpel harder against his vein. “Henry. Now.”

        “Okay.” Not releasing the gun, the officer reached down and pulled the radio off the velcro of his jacket. Victor hummed and studied the face of Henry’s watch, watching the seconds tick past. Three minutes seemed like a reasonable amount of time to wait before declaring complete warfare on the Hyde Park Police Station, he decided as he listened to the officer adjust his radio frequency.

        “Attention all units, we’ve got a missing persons report on a Henry Clerval. Physical description, uh…” The officer looked to Victor expectantly.

        Victor attempted to maintain some level of professionalism as he considered which features best describes Henry. “Strong cheekbones, well toned, amber eyes that you could drown in.” He finally announced.

        The officer raised an eyebrow. “I was looking for more, uh, general features, son.”

        “Blond, 5’11, light brown eyes, injured. Last seen walking away from Parkinson Drive at about 3:00 am last night. ” Justine threw out. Ah, apparently she was still here. That might be a bad thing, but he still nodded in agreement.

        The officer repeated the description and added a few nonsensical abbreviations to his words before clicking the radio off.

        “Saw?” He prompted carefully.

        “Gun?” Victor took the scalpel away from his pressure point, but kept it hovering until the officer had released his grip on the gun’s safety.

        “Good, good.” Victor let the scalpel and bone saw drop to his sides. “Now. I’m going to drop these. And then I’m going to puke all over your fucking carpet because I’m so stressed I actually think my organs might be shutting down. And then you can arrest me.”

        And, in exactly that order, that’s what Victor Frankenstein did.

 

        Justine paced the cell agitatedly. Victor leaned against the back wall, making a very valiant effort not to pass out. Turns out the stress of thinking you’re going to be shot is, like, bad for you or something. Who knew?

        Justine mumbled angrily under her breath as she turned the corner and begun her circuit around the cell again. Victor watched her.

        “Are you going to say it or…?” He prompted.

        Justine stopped dead in her tracks. Her glare was near to deadly as she leveled it at him. “What were you thinking?”

        Crap. Her voice sounded calm and even. That...was probably a very bad sign. Victor curled into a tighter ball on the hard, metal bench. “I was thinking that we needed to find Henry.”

        “We were working on it.”

        “We weren’t getting anywhere.” Victor argued. “And he’s hurt.”

        “We don’t know how bad the crash was. If he refused treatment-”

        “It was probably enough to kill him.” Victor cut her off. “I know Henry. He knows enough to ask for help when he needs it. The second he stops asking, well,” his mind was quick to fill in the blanks with images of a fourteen year old Henry, sitting on a dirty log with a blood running down the side of his face and unfocused eyes, “we can’t do that again.”

        Justine crossed her arms tightly. “We still could have  asked   instead of assaulting an officer.”

        “They wouldn’t have gone fast enough if we just filled a report. I mean, we are asking them to look for an effeminate, gay, communist-type. You think they’d actually put effort into that?”

        “So the solution was to threaten to stab yourself?” Justine hissed at him.

        “Yes.”

        “Victor,” Justine stared at him and, with a start, Victor realized she was crying. “I can’t have officer assault on my permanent record! How am I going to my PhD in child psychology now?!”

        “Relax!” Victor didn’t dare try and comfort her, but he did rummaged in his pocket for rumbled (probably clean) napkins to pass to her. “Listen, Justine, it’s going to be okay. They’re calling my dad now and he’ll bail us out. You weren’t involved in any of the actual assault so he’ll be able to pull some strings and wipe this from your record, no problem. And when they find Henry, you’ll be able to be there for him.”

        Justine sighed and dabbed at her eyes. She sat down heavily beside him.

        “What about you?” Her voice was small in the echoing cell.

        “What about me?”

        “Will your dad be able to bail you out too?” Justine asked.

        Victor started to answer, but was cut off as the officer he’d threatened approached the cell. He leaned in and unlocked the door. “Okay, Ms. Moritz? You’re free to go.”

        Justine leapt to her feet and looked to Victor who nodded his encouragement.

        “And Mr. Frankenstein,” Victor looked to the officer, “your father is on his way to speak to you.”

 

* * *

 

 

        Jascha sat with Henry in the bathroom while Mason called Ernest. Henry was panicked, as one would be when a burly lacrosse player grabs your wounded arm. A dark spot was already appearing through the bandage, indicating that his stitches may be damaged. Henry was slumped against Jascha’s chest and crying quietly, creating a near perfect replica of their ordeal last night. The other guy, Brendon, stood in the bathroom doorway and occasionally glanced at them uncomfortably. Jascha heard heavy, clunking footsteps as Mason jogged back up the stairs. When he came in the room he had a bottle of Vodka, despite it being only 2PM.

        “Hey, dudes. Called Ernest. He said he’s out on a walk  but’ll  run back. Be here in maybe fourteen minutes.” He looked at Henry and Jascha, a bit suspiciously. “I, uh, brought up some vodka. Take the edge off, you know?”

        Jascha shook his head. “Ernest wouldn’t let him drink. It’s bad when the body’s stressed.”

        “Okay, dweeb,” he placed the vodka on the sink counter. “So what’s the plan?”

        “We wait until Ernest gets here.” Jascha said flatly. He hadn’t forgiven Mason for the party yet. Might never.

        “Who the fuck is this dude anyway?” Brendon asked. “He doesn’t look like one of the guys.”

        “He’s one of Ernest’s friends.” Jascha said. His skin prickled slightly at Brendon’s tone.

        “Ernest’s friends with him?” Mason whispered to Brendon. “He’s a total pansy!”

        “What was that?” Jascha asked tensely.

        “Nothing, man. Chill.” Said Mason. There was an awkward quiet. “I’m, uh, gonna go downstairs to catch the rest of the game. I’ll send Ernest up when he gets here.”

        “Yeah, same.” Brendon tailed him as he went downstairs.

        Once they were alone, Jascha freed himself from Henry long enough to close the doors to the bathroom. He felt more secure when they were at least sort of in private. He returned to Henry and let him lean against him. He rubbed his shoulders gently.

        “Hey, dude, it’s gonna be okay.” Jascha said softly. Henry shook his head slightly.

        “I--I’m disfigured...that’s not me. That’s not my face.”

        “You’re fine. It’s gonna heal up and look normal. Worst case scenario you get a cool scar.” Jascha smoothed down his hair.

        “How do you cope?” Henry asked.

        “With what?” Jascha asked innocently.

        “All of it. Your body,” Henry took a quick breath. “The fucking pigs you live with. How?”

        “I don’t. Not really,” Jascha sighed, “I, uh, can’t shower with the lights on. I almost never leave the room in case one of the guys  notices  my scars.”

        “Have you considered leaving?” Henry’s voice was a bit more even.

        “Yeah. But Ernest is here, and he’s kinda my only friend.” Jascha felt a wave of anxiety come over him. Ernest was his closest friend, but he knew Ernest had other people. Ernest could leave and then he’d have no one.

        “Ernest could leave too,” Henry’s voice sounded tired. “You could get an apartment.”

        “Ernest’s friends are here. And I can’t help with rent.”

        The two were quiet for a bit. Now that they were alone, both of them relaxed a bit more. Or at least tried to. Jascha kept an ear out for Ernest’s footsteps. He was getting good at telling his from the other guys. Sure enough, he heard lithe footsteps jog up the stairs. After a few seconds, a light knock on the door.

        “It’s me,” Ernest said between heavy breaths.

        “It’s unlocked.” Jascha called.

        Ernest opened the door. He was panting and his cheeks were red from running. His hair and forehead were damp with sweat. He came in and knelt next to Jascha and Henry, cringing as his knee popped loudly.

        “Dammit, Britney,” he hissed under his breath.

        “Did you sprint here?” Jascha asked.

        “Pretty much,” he said between breaths. “Five minute miles. Two of them. In these shoes.” He gestured towards his sneakers.

        “I thought sneakers were for running?” Jascha asked. Ernest laughed a bit, causing Jascha to blush.

        “Not these ones. These are crap.” Ernest’s smile weakened as he look at Henry. “Hey, bud. How are you doing?” Henry just shook his head. “Can I take a look at you?”

        Henry sat up weakly, still holding onto Jascha’s arm with his left hand. Ernest gingerly rolled up the sleeve of Henry’s T-shirt. His brow furrowed as he looked at the red that was seeping through the bandages. He stood up and washed his hands, then got to work unwrapping Henry’s arm.

        “Do you feel feverish? You look a bit pale, and you’re sweating,” Ernest asked, “You feel a little hot, too. We should take you to the hospital.”

        Henry shook his head, keeping his eyes closed. “No hospital. Dad will kill me.”

        “Can I call my dad? He can at least take you to a private practice.” Ernest looked worried. “I want you to go on antibiotics. They could also give you real pain meds.”

        After a moment, Henry nodded. That was all Ernest needed. He drew out his phone and dialed a number, taking a deep breath before hitting “call.”

        “Hey,” he said into the receiver. “Can you come pick up Henry and take him to your doctor?” A pause. “Yeah, he showed up at the frat last night looking pretty bad. Car accident. No, I don’t know why he didn’t call Elizabeth or Victor. You can call them if you want. But they have to meet you at the hospital. Not here.” Ernest leaned against the sink. “Okay. Cool. See you in a couple hours.” He hung up and let out a long sigh. He turned to Henry. “He’s on his way.”

        “Thanks.” Henry said weakly.

        “No problem.” Ernest shifted on his feet. “You don’t, uh...need me to go with you, right?”

        “I’d be happy if you came,” Henry said. He looked up at Ernest.

        “...But you don’t  need  me?” Ernest looked nervous. He relaxed as Henry shook his head.

        “You’re really never coming back?” Henry asked sadly.

        “Uh, nope. No plans to, anyway. Unless something big changes.” He sounded almost angry. “I’ll help you get to Dad’s car, and I want you to call me when you’re at the hospital.” His gaze softened as he looked at Jascha, who was looking at him with a mix of confusion and concern. “Jascha, you doing okay?”

        Jascha blinked. Was he? He couldn’t really remember. “Um...Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. I’m just, you know, not so great at blood and stuff.”

        Ernest placed a hand on Jascha’s shoulder and gripped it comfortingly. Jascha felt his heart jump. “You’re doing great. Henry’s gonna be fine.”

        Henry smiled at Jascha while Ernest wrapped his arm in new bandages. Jascha mouthed “what?” at him, but Henry just shrugged. Once Ernest was done, the two of them helped carry Henry back to his bed so that he could rest until Alphonse showed up. Jascha and Ernest went back to Jascha’s room.

        “You’ve been stealing my textbooks.” Ernest said gently, pointing at the book on the desk.

        “Just borrowing. I’ve read all the magazines.” Jascha closed the Russian textbook and placed it back in Ernest’s bag.

        “I’m pretty nasty. I think I’m gonna take a shower.” He said, already taking off his sweat-soaked shirt. “Can I put my clothes in your laundry basket? I don’t wanna bother Henry.”

        Jascha nodded to him absently, trying not to stare as he striped down to his underwear. He felt his cheeks get red and had a similar warm sensation to the one he had last night. He shifted in discomfort and crossed his legs.

        “You okay?” Ernest asked, throwing his ball of dirty clothes into the basket.

        “Huh?” Jascha blinked dumbly. He felt his heart lurch as Ernest came and sat next to him in nothing but a towel.

        “It’s really okay,” Ernest said softly. “Henry is going to be fine.”

        Jascha nodded. Somehow it wasn’t Henry that had him worried. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

        Ernest patted him on the back and stood up, disappearing into the bathroom. Jascha waited until he heard the shower start before he relaxed. But the feeling didn’t stop. If anything, it was worse now that he was alone and had nothing else to think about. He wished his body would stop; that this particular function of his physiology had been fucked up in Victor’s experiment. He also wished that he’d just not looked at Ernest. He thought about how uncomfortable this would make him if he knew. He was so afraid of this sort of thing. He’d hate it. He might even be revolted enough to stop wanting to hang out.

        Yet it was happening. And Jascha knew what he looked like in a towel, and what it felt like to be held by him. He could probably have been fine with one or the other, but together he was overwhelmed. He closed his eyes. That made it worse. It forced him to listen to the shower. He opened them and went to go retrieve the Russian textbook. Ernest’s backpack smelled like him. He felt cornered by his own feelings and threatened by his body. There was nothing in the room that was far enough removed from Ernest to distract him, and he certainly wasn’t going to leave his room like this. What did normal people do when they felt like this? Who was he kidding; he knew what they did. He’d told himself he wouldn’t. Swore it to himself as soon as he was well enough to understand that he had a body that worked and didn’t belong to him. This, however, was torture. The person who once occupied this flesh had probably felt the same way at some point. It wasn’t his fault he felt like this, nor was it his fault that he’d been a new body. Ernest took long showers. He could afford to give into temptation once.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Russian says "I am Jascha. I'm alive. I am human."


	14. Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry is safe. Victor talks to his dad. Jascha discovers something new

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Thank you for reading. As always, we adore hearing from you.
> 
> Trigger warnings in this section for: discussion of hospitals, psych hospitalization, and internalized homophobia.

        Comfort was the backseat of Alphonse Frankenstein’s car. He had the same black Range Rover he did when Henry was fourteen. This car was nice because it didn’t scream when it went up hills and he could convincingly pretend to sleep. He knew, obviously, that Alphonse wasn’t buying it, but he could hardly summon the energy to keep his heart beating, much less explain what’s been happening to Victor’s father.

        Judging by his appearance, he should have been a terrifying man. At over six feet tall, his gaunt face and sharp features hung over almost everyone. His dark hair was always combed back and his collars starched and clean. Henry supposed when he was young, he must have been beautiful in much the same way Victor was. His fine features brought out his expressive eyes. Despite all this, Alphonse was truly one of the most compassionate people Henry had ever met. Where would he be without him? Dead, probably. Either that, or in hell. They hit a bump in the road and he made a small sound as his arm was jostled.

        “Henry,” Alphonse said, his voice fluid as a brook, “Why didn’t you come home?” It would have been easy to think he was angry with Henry, he had heard that voice before. It was fear.

        “Victor...is upset with me. I don’t think he wants me around,” Henry could see Alphonse raise an eyebrow in the rearview mirror.

        “My Victor? Not want you around? Preposterous,” he laughed lightly, “I meant back to my home, though. I wasn’t lying to you, Henry. We will always be a home for you to return to.”

        Henry was silent for the rest of the ride to the hospital. He should have said something that made him sound grateful because he was; he truly, truly was. The words that formed in the back of his throat were weak and inadequate. Everything about him was weak and inadequate.

        When they arrive at the hospital, Henry thought he was going to be sick. Not because he hurt and was running a rather high fever, but because the last time he was here it was to see Victor. It looked the same and felt the same and every overly polished surface gleamed with too much light. Hell, it even smelled the same: like lemons masking the scent of bloody oil. Alphonse did the talking and the paperwork, but Henry didn’t catch most of it. He was too busy trying to figure out where the oil smell was coming from and why it was so prevalent after almost ten years.

        “And Lawrence and Meredith Clerval must not be allowed to see him, do you understand?” Alphonse’s eyes were hard as granite.

        “Of course, Mr. Frankenstein. We’ll see to it,” the receptionist typed some notes into her computer. Then, Henry was taken away to be treated.

        Really, there wasn’t all that much they could do for him beside prescribe some real medicine and fix up the ruined stitches on his arm. Ernest really did do good work. There were some tests. Miraculously, he didn’t have a concussion. He was not quite sure how he managed that. Truly, he wished he could just keel over and die. The smell of the room, the eyes looking at him, examining him. The poking and prodding at his bruised skin reminded him that despite everything, he was still very much alive and hurting.

        Henry was allowed to go home with instructions to stay in bed and allow his body to heal. So, Alphonse took him home. The car ride was comfortably silent and soft. It had been a long time since Henry had been to the Frankenstein home. The winding driveway led to a Victorian mansion. With Victor’s grungy clothing, sometimes he forgot that he came from money. A lot of money. The hedges were neatly trimmed in a line and trellis roses grew along the fence. Even though Henry felt a little better after taking medicine, he still couldn’t walk very well, so Alphonse helped him to the house and placed him on a huge, leather couch.

        Henry saw a pair of eyes peek out from the top of the spiral staircase. He heard a small gasp and then the sound of William running down the stairs.

        “Uncle Henry!” He jumped past the last three stairs and skidded across the hardwood floor. William was the only Frankenstein kid who inherited his mother’s brown, curly hair and farsightedness.

        “Hey bud,” Henry smiled, “It’s been a long time, huh.” Before Alphonse could stop him, William hugged Henry. It really hurt his ribs, but he finally had enough wherewithal to keep his reaction internal.  “Oh wow, you’ve gotten so much taller.”

        “I’m 5’4” now!” he puffed his chest out and looked very proud of himself. He jumped over the arm of the couch and sat next to Henry. “Are you going to come to my birthday? It’s in two weeks. I’m gonna be twelve.”

        “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” it had been on Henry’s radar for months, but he hadn’t quite found the perfect present yet.

        “I hope Victor comes too. I had tried to call him but I just got his voicemail. It’s been 14 days and he still hasn’t called back.” William looked devastated.

        “Has he now?” Henry frowned. “I’ll talk to him. He’d been kinda out of it.”

        “You seem kinda out of it,” William cocked his head. It was a habit he inherited from Victor. His dark eyes glowed with worry.

        “It’s been a rough couple of days.” Henry said, “Nothing to worry about,” It had been two days.

        “Well, you’re here now and you know what that means!” William popped up and ran into the dining room. He returned with a stack of books. “You get to help me with my English homework!”

        Henry laughed. “There is nothing more I’d rather do in the entire world.” William beamed and after some deliberation, they decided to move up to Victor’s old room so Henry would only have to move once. The same posters were on the wall and the same chemistry set took up his entire desk. They settled on his bed. It still smelled like Victor, even after all this time.

        “Okay, what are you working on now?” Henry asked.

        “American poetry. We’ve been talking about Walt Whitman a lot in class,” William pulled out a worksheet with some poetry terms on it.

        “Well, you’ve come to the right person,” Henry took a look at a book. “What’s your assignment?”

        “We have to pick a poem we haven’t studied in class and write about it.”

        “Ooh, those were always my favorite,”

        “Yeah, they’re pretty fun, but I’m not sure which one to pick,” Henry handed William the book and he began to thumb through it.

        “Hmm, there are a lot of really good ones. What do you like?”

        “I don’t know. Which one’s your favorite?” William asked. Henry had to think for a second. There were so many that he loved, mostly in  _ Calamus _ . Naturally, he had a leaning towards the more homoerotic of the poems, but perhaps that wasn’t the best idea for William’s elementary school class. “I think I like ' Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking'  the best.”

        William smiled and turned to it before his smile dropped, “But it’s soooooooooo long,”

        “It is not that long,” Henry raised his eyebrows. “Do you have a better idea?”

        “No,” William grumbled.

        “How about this. I can read it out loud to you and you can write how you feel about it.”

        “Okay!” he instantly cheered up and snuggled into one of Victor’s pillows with his notebook and pen at the ready.

        “ _ Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, _

_ Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle, _

_ Out of the Ninth-month midnight, _

_ Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child leaving his bed wander’d alone, bareheaded, barefoot, _

_ Down from the shower’d halo, _

_Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if they were alive_ , ” William hummed in approval. It really was a great poem. They read for maybe half an hour. Henry loved the ending the best.

        “ _Whereto answering, the sea,_

_ Delaying not, hurrying not, _

_ Whisper’d me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak, _

_ Lisp’d to me the low and delicious word death, _

_ And again death, death, death, death, _

_ Hissing melodious, neither like the bird nor like my arous’d child’s heart, _

_ But edging near as privately for me rustling at my feet, _

_ Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all over, _

_Death, death, death, death, death_.”

        “William,” Alphonse interrupted, “Can you please come down here for a moment. It’s urgent.” William gave Henry an apologetic look as he hopped of the bed and skipped down the stairs. Henry couldn’t hear everything, but he heard enough.

        “Need to leave...will be late...get dinner...Victor...don’t tell,” Alphonse said hurriedly before leaving the house with a slam of the door.   Victor. He missed Victor more than he missed having full feeling in his right arm. He should call him or something and see where they stand. He could hear William coming up the stairs, slowly this time. When he walked in  the room he was as pale as a sheet.

        “I think Victor’s really in trouble this time,” he said. “Dad  said I shouldn’t tell you what’s up because you need to rest.”

        “I need-”

        “Dad says I need to let you sleep. Goodnight Uncle Henry,” William gathered the books and left Henry to agonize alone.

 

* * *

 

        “So. Here we are. Again.”

        Victor nodded. “Yup.”

        His dad paused for a moment. Sighed. Ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. Victor didn’t dare move. He didn’t want to do anything to attract his father’s attention back to him so he sat in stillness and silence, watching the other as he looked around the messy cell they sat in.

        Something tapped incessantly in the background, like the tick of a clock or the pounding of rubber against metal. His father glanced to him and reached out a gentle hand, placing it on Victor’s knee, calming his bouncing leg. The tapping in the cell came to a halt.

        “Do I need to start this?” His dad finally asked.

        Victor shrugged, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

        “You knew about our agreement.”

        “Yeah.” Victor barely registered it as the tapping begin again. “I know. Are you...going to go through with it?”

        “You know I don’t want to, but I feel I have no choice.” His dad drew himself to a taller height. “You knew about our agreement and you chose to break it.”

        Victor swallowed hard. “I-” He glanced away. “Did they at least find Henry?”

        “Henry?” The surprise which colored his father’s voice was odd and tilted, strange to hear on the usually firm baritone. “Henry is at home.”

        “Home?” Victor just barely caught himself before the rush of adrenaline launched him from his seat. He leaned forward and grabbed his father’s forearm tightly. “Henry is home? Is he okay? Is he hurt?”

        His father looked to his arm and Victor’s vice grip, looked to Victor. Something in his brain seemed to click. “Ah. So this was about Henry, then.” He said softly as he pried Victor’s fingers from their iron grip.

        Victor caught his dad’s  _way too_   knowing gaze and glanced away. He hoped the blush on his cheeks was adequately hidden by the returning fever. “I-” Another quick glance towards his father, who raised his eyebrows. What would be the price of lying now? High. Far too high. It had been years since they’d made their agreement, but Victor could still rattle off all the rules without exerting a thread of conscious thought.

        Rule 1: When his father asked a direct question, he was required to answer it fully, honestly, and without hesitation.

        It was the reason he called home so little.

        “Some of it was to do with Clerval. Most of it was to do with...Henry.”

        His father didn’t prompt for more. Victor knew the game too well. He was allowed to pause for thirty seconds now. He counted them out.

        “Henry and I got in a fight.” The words spilled from his mouth now, an excess of syllables running into each other fast enough so as to blur, but he knew that if he let himself stop, he wouldn’t be able to start again. Not with his father looking at him with such disappointment. “It was bad. And my fault. Entirely my fault. I- I was taking advantage of him and all his kindness and then...work...work got complicated and I felt like I couldn’t keep up with him and so I didn’t and, well,” Victor dropped his head, “it’s a lot. A lot has happened.”

        “You know I need to hear all of it.” His dad prompted.

        “Okay.” Victor held up a hand. “One.” He held up a finger. “I’m a horrible person. Two. I called Henry a dog. Three. I got drunk and had a severe lapse of judgement. Four. Slept with...” He hesitated and glanced to his father, who only gave a nod. Victor grimaced. “I had sex with a girl that I...really shouldn’t have. Five. I called Elizabeth and made her get me from a frat party. Then I got really, really sick and had a bigger breakdown. Then Henry left and-”

        “And I know the rest.” His father gently cut him off. Victor felt red hot guilt pile up and into the base of his throat.  No,  he wanted to say,  you really don’t.  But how was he supposed to begin to explain without being immediately condemned. He clutched the watch around his wrist.

        Victor watched his father, waiting for any cue which would allow him to ask after Henry, but the older man offered nothing, face impassive and smooth even as Victor knew his thoughts ran wild.

        Rule 2: Victor wasn’t allowed to ask questions during these conversations unless his

father let him.

        That one was hard to keep with.

        His father leaned forward and placed a hand on his knee once more. “Henry is safe. He’s resting at our house.”

        Victor breathed out hard, a sigh which became a sob, which he silenced with his fist.

        “He was with Ernest, who was taking care of him. And, after we took him to the hospital, they cleared him to go home.”

        Ernest? Was- did that mean Henry had gone to the frat house? The burning in his throat worsened. Had things gotten so horrid that Henry would chose to turn to his experiment for comfort above Victor?

        “What happens now?” Victor forced himself to ask.

        “Well...I’ve talked to the police. There’s no getting around fines and all that fanfare. But I have convinced them that your...actions this evening were the result of a...lapse. They’ve agreed to let you go-”

        Victor tensed.

        “-if I seek out a proper treatment method to address your actions.”

        And there it was.

        Rule 3: If Victor relapsed, it was straight back to the psych ward. Do not pass go.

        It didn't take a genius to see that he had relapsed and more these past few weeks. Elizabeth’s words fluttered through his foggy brain.  I can’t lose you again.

“Are you going to?” Victor broke rule 2.

        “Going to do what?”

        “You know.” Victor stressed. “You  know. ”

        His dad hesitated. “Victor, you remind me so much of your mother.”

        Oh fuck. Oh god, they were going down memory lane. Victor was doomed.

        “You have so much of her fire, her drive, her...energetic personality.” His dad smiled and Victor tried to smile back. “But...well. Victor, my boy, you have also had the misfortune of inheriting some of her more...unique issues.”

        “I know.” Victor said quickly. “We’ve been over this.”

        “Yet, you keep forgetting.” For the first time in the conversation, his dad snapped and Victor drew back on the bench.

        “But, I- I do remember.”

        “Which doesn’t do you any good now, does it.”

        “But I-”

        “Victor. You know that empathy is hard for you, you know that you need to work more on your relationships than your brothers do, yet you keep slipping up. I’ve been aware that things between you and Henry have been on the decline for some time, but what’s happened over these last few days is completely unacceptable. This is no way to treat someone you love, Victor.”

        “Love?” Victor choked out. “I don’t-”

        His father leveled him with a serious stare. The words died in Victor’s throat.

        “Is it-”

        “Obvious? Yes. Yes it is.”

        The blush was visible now, Victor just knew it. He kept his gaze away from his father, choosing to instead study the very interesting cell sink. There was hair stuck in the drain. He was being attacked from all sides.

        “How long have you-?”

        “Since the summer you turned sixteen. When Henry and you came back from that three week long camping trip, you just began to look at him differently.” His father stood. “You looked at him the way your mother used to look at me. I just never expected the situation to stretch on so long.”

        Victor couldn’t speak anymore, his throat gummed up to the very back of his tonsils. He wanted desperately to cry, but somehow held himself back. Like all always, however, his father saw through the weak walls Victor pushed up around him.

        His father stood and engulfed Victor in a tight hug. Victor clung to him as the tears erupted in full, violent force, guttural and raw. “I’m sorry, Dad, I’m so sorry.”

        “I know.” His dad ran a gentle hand through his hair and rocked him gently. “I know. We’ll figure this out.”

        It was time for them to go home.

 

* * *

 

 

        This marked the second morning that Ernest had gone without speaking to Jascha. He’d gone back to his actual room after he showered, and hadn’t resurfaced until his dad came to get Henry. After that, he went back to his room and Jascha just didn’t see him. He felt awful that night anyway, so at least for those last few hours of that particular day he’d been happy to be alone, but now he was afraid. He felt all the guilt of having been aroused by his friend  _ and _  the guilt of having orgasmed with someone else’s body, which were then compounded with the soul-wrenching paranoia that not only his friend but the entire frat knew what he’d done.

        He’d waited the whole next day for Ernest to knock on his door. He felt like going over himself was too much. When Ernest failed to appear at the dinner table at all, or even in passing, he got worried. It was by that night that he asked Mason where Ernest was, but received only a passive shrug followed by  “End of season soccer stuff.” Maybe that was reasonable. It was November. What Jascha heard was “He’s avoiding you.”

        Jascha spent the morning cleaning his room. It wasn’t messy, but he needed to do something. He found Ernest’s clothes in his laundry when he took his load out of the dryer, gifting him with another knife-twist of guilt. He folded them neatly and placed them by his door.

        Once he ran out of his own chores to do, he started cleaning the rest of the frat house. This proved to be revolting, difficult work, but he was relieved to have his mind taken off of things. He did all the dishes; threw out the old food in the fridge; took out the trash. He even cleaned the communal downstairs bathroom, which was the worst part. He decided not to think too hard about why the floor was sticky, and he wore gloves when he cleaned the shower.

        He made dinner for himself before the other guys came back from their respective evening classes or practices. After that, he went back to his room. Maybe he should move out. The stress of the past few days proved to him that the only reason this was bearable was Ernest. Without him, he felt alone, and he couldn’t stand being around the other guys. He shut his eyes and commanded himself to sleep, despite it only being 9PM.

        He woke up at 1AM. He saw that the door to the bathroom was closed and the light was on. He felt thorns of guilt and anxiety wrap around his stomach, guaranteeing that he wouldn’t be sleeping through much of the remaining night. He turned on his bedside lamp and re-read an issue of Sports Illustrated, feeling personally shamed by each of the gleaming photoshopped smiles. He caught himself checking the clock and the bathroom door every two minutes, and was disappointed each time either the hour or the bathroom stayed unchanged.

        It was 3AM when he next awoke, having fallen asleep with the lamp on and the magazine in his hands. This time it the sound of movement in the bathroom that disturbed him. Under the door he could see the shadows of Ernest’s feet as he paced. He was just mustering the nerve to call out to him when he heard a faint knock on the door.

        “Are you awake?” Ernest asked, barely more than a whisper.

        “Yeah,” Jascha replied. He could feel his heartbeat pounding in the back of his skull.

        “Can I come in?” Ernest’s voice was hesitant.

        “It’s unlocked,” Jascha managed to choke out. His heart must be breaking some sort of record, he thought to himself. The light in the bathroom shut off and Ernest pushed the door open. The soft glow of the lamp revealed him to be disheveled: His hair was on-end, and he had deep circles under his eyes. He shuffled over to Jascha’s bed and lay down beside him, staring up at the ceiling. Up close, Jascha could see that his eyes were wet and puffy.

        “Are you...okay?” Jascha asked. He felt nauseous and his hands were numb. Ernest shook his head and closed his eyes. “What’s up?” Jascha tried to keep an even tone.

        “I…” Ernest started. He put a hand over his mouth as his voice broke.

        Jascha felt a surge of adrenaline cut through his guilt. He placed his hand on Ernest’s chest, much like Ernest had done for him when he was upset. This, however, seemed only to make Ernest feel worse. He covered his face with his hands and drew a sharp breath.

        “I’m really sorry,” he said weakly. “I’m really, really sorry.”

        “You haven’t done anything wrong,” Jascha urged, confused. Ernest shook his head.

        “I…” He swallowed hard. “Jascha, can I ask you to do something for me?” His hands still covered his face.

        “Anything,” Jascha said quickly. “What do you need?”

        Ernest took a deep breath and lowered his hands, finally turning onto his side to face him. Jascha started to pull back his hand, but Ernest stopped him. Somehow, Ernest seemed calm now.

        “I-I need you,” Ernest paused. “I need you to kiss me. Like I were a girl.”

        “What?” Jascha must have hallucinated. Or he was having a heart attack.

        “Please,” Ernest whispered. “I need to prove something to myself. If- if you don’t want to, that’s okay, I just--”

        Jascha placed a hand under Ernest’s jaw and brought their lips together. He remembered this- from before. Ernest gripped his arm tightly, digging his fingers in almost painfully. Ernest’s lips were tight and a little chapped, but that didn’t matter. After a second they softened, and Jascha felt Ernest breathe in sharply through his nose. The death-grip on his arm loosened. Jascha pulled away after a couple seconds, blushing when he caught Ernest staring at him in blank surprise.

        Ernest touched his own lips lightly with his fingers, his gaze soft and distant. Jascha felt as though he must be able to hear his heart through his chest. He was afraid, but with the fear was a fluttering and warm sensation. Ernest closed his eyes and looked pained, swallowing hard.

        “...Okay. Uh, thanks,” he laughed nervously, bordering on panic. “I...kissed a guy. Holy fuck,” he pulled at his hair, and fresh tears welled in his eyes. He couldn’t look directly at Jascha. “I’m a fucking queer. This is it; the end of my life,” his voice was quiet but frantic.

        Jascha wasn’t sure what to do. He assumed this meant he was probably also supposed to be panicking, but he just felt the same level of fear as before. “It’s not the end of your life,” he sighed. “Besides, kissing a guy once doesn’t necessarily mean you’re gay.”

        Ernest closed his eyes and shook his head. He was quiet for a while; long enough to make Jascha feel like he should probably find something useful to say. He wanted to ask if the friendship would be okay; if this changed anything, and if it was why Ernest had been avoiding him.

        Ernest sighed and opened his eyes, looking at Jascha with fear. “Are you gay?” His fear dissolved into something like anger. “Have you been gay this whole time? And you just let me fucking panic?”

        Jascha shook his head. “I don’t know. I really don’t.” He said quickly. “I...like being around you. I liked kissing you. I don’t really have a strong interest in girls. But I also don’t think I’ve been interested in guys either, up until now.”

        “You liked it?” Ernest asked.

        “Uh, yeah,” Jascha looked away. “It felt pretty okay.” It had felt better than okay. He felt the same as he had two days ago, but somehow worse. He felt dizzy and aroused, despite also being afraid that Ernest was about to have a breakdown.

        “I...liked it too. Like, a lot.” Jascha glanced back at Ernest, who’s cheeks were tinged with pink. Ernest laughed anxiously. There was a pause as Jascha met Ernest’s eyes.

        Ernest scooched himself closer to Jascha until they were only inches apart. Tentatively, he pulled Jascha back in for another kiss. Jascha felt Ernest’s arms wrap around his chest, bringing them together. He gasped slightly as he felt Ernest’s thigh against his erection, startling both himself and Ernest alike. Jascha felt his eyes on him as he turned what he could only assume was an impressive shade of red.

        “I’m sorry,” Jascha mumbled. He jumped as he felt Ernest’s hands against the elastic of his sweatpants. “What are you…?”

        He got no reply from Ernest save for his lips pressed hard against his own. Part of him wanted this; to just let Ernest do whatever he wanted to do to him. But the other part knew the guilt he’d felt after letting his own hands touch himself, and he wasn’t ready to explain to Ernest why he had a scar around the base of his dick. He grabbed Ernest’s hand gently.

        “...No,” he said breathlessly. “Not yet.” Ernest’s hands stopped, and he didn’t have to look at him to know he was concerned. He felt Ernest move his hands to his waist, sliding them under his sweatshirt. He cringed as his fingers ran lightly over a scar, waiting for Ernest to ask a question.

        But the question never came. Instead he was pulled closer to Ernest, who pressed his face into the curve of his neck. He felt his lips against his skin, and his stomach plunged. Jascha tangled his fingers in Ernest’s hair. He could feel his heartbeat this close, outpacing even his own. He could feel the weight of Ernest’s body; he wrapped himself around Jascha until there was as little space between the two as possible. Ernest resurfaced to kiss him again, holding their faces close to one another.

        “I can’t be a fucking homo,” he said in a breathy whisper. He clenched his eyes shut. “God, but I’ve never been this hard before in my life,” he would have blushed if his face weren’t already so red. “I’m gonna get kicked off the team.”

        Jascha kissed him gently on the mouth. “Do you want me to try to help?”

        “Dude,  thanks, but I don’t think you can help me with soccer,” said Ernest, looking at Jascha miserably. His eyes widened slightly. “You...probably didn’t mean soccer.”

        Jascha shook his head. Ernest thought for a minute, then sighed. “I mean, it’s not, like, real sex. Like it’s not actually gay if it’s just something I could do to myself, right?”

        Jascha had no idea how to answer this. He shrugged. “We don’t have to.”

        “I’m...not sure.” Ernest took a breath. “I think...I don’t know.” He squirmed slightly in discomfort. “I think I just need some sleep. Alone. This...is probably just lack of sleep.”

        Ernest looked at Jascha once more before reluctantly untangling their limbs. He looked terrified, and exhausted. His cheeks were pink and his breathing was still shallow. Jascha felt a new feeling settle in his chest that he couldn’t quite name. It was something like hurt, but also terror. He watched Ernest walk back to the bathroom, giving him an awkward last smile.

        “Uh, Goodnight,” Ernest said. “And, uh, thanks.”

        Ernest went back to his room. After he heard the door close, Jascha felt the whole weight of it hit him. He felt embarrassed, and confused. He touched his lips. He could still feel the first kiss. His skin tingled where Ernest’s hands had been. He touched the scar that Ernest’s fingers had brushed against; it was the huge I-shaped one he assumed Victor had made whilst putting in his organs. The incisions were deep and the scars left stark, dark seams along his stomach. This was a close one. If Ernest had...If Ernest had rolled up his sweater, or god forbid taken it off, he would have seen. And there would have been questions. As weird as it felt to admit, it would have been safer to have allowed him to touch him, since that scar was so much smaller and better hidden. He sort of wished he’d let him. He sort of wished he could just tell him the whole thing. It wasn’t like Ernest liked Victor anyways.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As stated in the text, the poem is "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking" by Walt Whitman. "Calamus" is a collection of poems by Whitman, and can be found both on their own or in "Leaves of Grass." Warning; in LoG the poems are taken out of their original order, so some of their meanings may be different. "Calamus" is known as being one of his more intimate and homoerotic collections.


	15. Delicate Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry makes a phone call. Victor returns home. Jascha deals with his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! As always, we love you and it brings us joy to see your comments and kudos.
> 
> Trigger warnings in this section for: Internalized homophobia, homophobia, and descriptions of scars/injury

        Henry listened as William’s little footsteps faded away. The house was huge, not in the sense that it was physically imposing, which it was, but there was so much space for only two. At one point, the house was home to eight people at a time, but then Victor’s mom died and he was sent away. Then everyone left for school until it was just William and Alphonse alone. Alphonse was too meticulous to let any part of the house fall into disrepair, but Henry still noticed the fine layer of dust over mantle pieces and cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling.

         Victor’s room was no different. Henry notices a small splotch near the light fixture where Alphonse killed a bug with a boot when they were little. He remembered sleeping over with Victor for the first or second time and how terrified he looked when it scuttled over the light and cast a shadow. There were a few pin holes where Victor and Henry hung up models of bird skeletons and airplanes when they were in middle school. That was right when Henry started to get tall and he constantly hit his head. In the corner there was a neat little contraption that projected constellations on the ceiling. By then, they were far too old to have been so amused by it, but it was a comforting voice in the dark of high school. Henry liked hearing about the mythology and stories behind the people set in stars. Victor liked the physics and chemistry of space. Henry liked that he got to lie next to Victor for hours on end, listening to that voice and his breathing.

        That was the first time Henry considered telling Victor how he felt. He could have- should have- reached out for his hand or moved just a little bit closer. He wished he could have rested his head on his shoulder and told Victor everything he loved about him. But he didn’t. They were so close and affectionate as kids and then, one day, they just weren't. It got better since they’ve been in college, but there was a point in time where Henry had not touched Victor for three years and he could never, ever do that again.

        Henry rolled over onto his good side and pressed his cheek into the pillow. It was Victor’s, without a doubt. It smelled faintly of pine, vanilla, and acid. He remembered spending nights in this bed and they talked about everything. Henry remembered most vividly the night he told him about his father. It was maybe a year before the big meltdown, but it was bad and Henry was prone to smaller meltdowns. He really had thought his dad would understand, especially after he found him with that man. No, that was foolish and Henry was so young. He had cried into Victor’s arms for hours that night. For all his faults and flaws, when Victor cared, he cared more deeply than any man should be capable of. The same fire and passion that so often burned him in the lab set him free when he was with Henry.

        How on earth was he not supposed to worry about Victor? Victor was always in trouble in one way or another, so what made it worse this time? There was really only one thing that could have gone wrong. Someone must have found Jascha. He had to call someone. Ernest probably was best. Fuck, he meant to call him earlier after he got home from the hospital. Well, better late than never. He would be damned if he had to walk down all those stairs alone, though. He scanned the room. Back when Victor was in highschool his dad got him a landline and, yes, it was still there.

        He dialed Ernest’s number and it went to voicemail. “Umm hey,” Henry said, “I got back from the hospital a couple hours ago and they prescribed some antibiotics and pain meds like you said. Uhhh, this is probably a weird question, but is Jascha around? It’s not like it’s really important but...I just got really worried about him all of a sudden. Just shoot me a call when you get this...or...I don’t know, I don’t have my phone...maybe call Justine? Yeah…I don’t know. Thanks, bye.”

        Well, that was a bust. Henry thought about what else he could do. Maybe Elizabeth would know. But did he really want to call her or anyone? He had left them completely in the dark for the past day and they must be worried about him. He had been so selfish and so irresponsible. It would be a miracle if any of them ever wanted to talk to him again. He really should call.

        He dialed Elizabeth’s number. “Hello?” she answered hazily. Clearly, he just woke her up.

        “Hey, Elizabeth, it’s Henry,”

        “Henry?” his name was a question. “Oh my god. Oh my god. You’re okay. Oh thank god you’re okay.”

        “I’m so sorry,” Henry curled around the plastic cord as he lay in Victor’s bed.

        “No no no no, don’t be sorry. It’s okay. You’re okay!” Were those tears in her voice?

        “I’m,” he should tell the truth, “I’m not really that okay.”

        “What happened? I wasn’t in the apartment when shit hit the fan. Justine just came back from god knows where and she won’t talk...locked me out of our room and everything. I don’t know what happened...but it must have been bad.”

        “Where’s Victor?” Henry asked, voice rising.

        “I don’t know. Really, I don’t. Justine does for sure and you could try calling her, but I doubt she’ll pick up...please tell me what happened, Henry. Where are you?”

        “I’m at...Victor’s house,” Henry tried to keep his voice as even. “I...hearing Victor just scream reminded me...of things...and I had a meltdown and ran away to Bastion.”

        “Bastion?”

        “Yeah.”

        “Henry, I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth knew what he meant. He couldn’t say those words right now.

        “I had another meltdown there and decided to go away...I don’t really know where I was heading...I panicked on the road because of...my thing,” He must sound like such an idiot.

        “The eyes?”

        “Yeah,” tears started running down his cheek and they stung where they touched the wound. “I...I ran into a tree...and...I don’t...I don’t think it was actually…” he sobbed into Victor’s pillow.

        “Shhh, it’s okay. You’re safe now,” she tried to comfort him over the phone.

        “I...I was near the frat houses so I went to go stay with Jascha and he and Ernest patched me up…”

        “What did…who’s Jascha?”

        “Stitches. There was glass in my right arm and my face,” Henry ran a finger of the stitching and felt each of the little threads.

        “Your face,” Elizabeth sounded disgusted. Of course, she should be. He was disfigured by a selfish act of desperation and now neither he nor anyone else would ever be able to forget it.

        “I’m so sorry,” Henry said again.

        “I’m glad you’re alive, Henry. We had been looking everywhere and we just couldn't find you,” there was a pause, and Elizabeth’s voice broke. “Why didn’t you come home?”

        “I thought...I thought you all hated me...that Victor hated me...and I was just making everything worse and worse and worse. I couldn't keep letting myself hurt him when he was already so vulnerable...I…I…”

        “Henry, we love you. We still love you. Victor will always love you. Please come home.” Henry thought he could hear Elizabeth pacing.

        “People keep telling me that,” Henry sighed.

        “What?”

        “That Victor loves me.” It felt like Henry swallowed a bag of marbles.

        “Of course he does, it’s so obvious. Anyone could-”

        “Not me,” Henry gulped and rocked slowly. “He’s made it very clear that I only make everything worse. Do you want to know the worst thing?”

        Elizabeth stopped pacing and sat down on the edge of something soft, “What?”

        “I still love him anyway. I could never-”

        “Tell him,” Elizabeth stood up and her voice brightened. “You both suffer under this delusion that you’re not worthy of each other. It’s completely insane...well...Victor doesn’t deserve someone as good as you...but he’s a good person and cares about you. He can learn. He’s already gotten so much better than when he was a kid.”

        “I...I don’t even know when I’ll see him again...If I’ll see him again,” Henry whispered. The thought hadn’t occurred to him until then.

        “You’re at home with dad, right? They’ll come back. If Victor really is as fucked as William said then they’ll definitely be back,” Elizabeth shuffled through some papers.

        “I’m terrified,” Henry said. “What if it’s so bad Alphonse has the enact...rule three. I don’t think...I can’t...not again…” his breathing picked up again and he felt like he was going to hyperventilate.

        “I know. I know, Henry. I can’t either.” They’ve had this conversation before. If Elizabeth were in the room with him she would have pulled him into a hug and pet his hair until he calmed down.  

        “I miss him so much,” Henry wept. “I’m just so scared.”

        “I know. We’ll figure this out together. So many people love him and so many people love you too,” Elizabeth sighed. “You should get some sleep. It’ll help you feel better.”

        “I will...try,” Henry conceded.

        “I’ll call you sometime tomorrow to check in. Let me know if Victor comes home.”

        “I will,” Henry promised.

        “Bye, I love you,” Elizabeth said.

        “I love you too, bye,” and Henry heard the phone click on the other end. In that moment, Henry felt oppressively alone, as if no one could ever talk to him or touch him again.

        Eventually, he did manage to sleep and it was peaceful. Victor’s bed was warm and soft. The weight of the blankets on his chest pressed him into the mattress and surrounded him with many pleasant memories.

 

* * *

 

        It seemed like every time Victor came home the house was bigger. Of course, every time Victor came home, there were less people to occupy the space, but it was still an unsettling feeling, walking into the same foyer he and Ernest used to play tag in and suddenly realizing he felt smaller then he had been at the age of four. He stuck to the walls, to the places where the ceiling hung low enough to press close to his head, and watched his father walk straight through the space. His footsteps echoed with purpose and Victor had the insane thought that he was summoning all the noise in the house into his stride.

        Silent house, loud steps, super paranoid Victor. Looks like nothing had changed after all.

        Victor peeled himself away from the wall and took up pace behind his dad as the other moved towards the…Victor held his breath and released it as his father took the turn towards the kitchen rather than the study. Good, good. No more serious talks right now.

        As Victor trailed his dad to the kitchen, a sudden heaviness overtook his form. He felt like his father’s wrung out shadow and the desire to sleep became immediately overwhelming. How long had it been since he’d slept? Long enough that his normally mathy brain refused to even give him an estimate. Long enough that he was using the word mathy.

        Movement out of the corner of his eye caused Victor to freeze up. He reached one hand towards his missing bag, only to register the shock of black hair emerging from behind the hallway column with a form. He tilted his head. A small, pale face tilted back to him.

        Oh. William. Right. Victor had forgotten he’d be here. The kid stared back at him with wide eyes and Victor fought a wave of dread as he found actual fear in them. How much had dad told him, Victor wondered. Enough to make the poor kid look scared shitless. Victor had been standing still too long. He threw a quick glance to the kitchen entranceway, but his dad seemed to have occupied himself with cleaning dishes for the time being. He always was a stress cleaner. Still, Victor shouldn’t dawdle, not if he wanted the chance to see Henry before…well, before whatever was going to happen happened.

        Victor turned to face William fully and summoned his best smile. William peeked further out from behind the column with a frown, which Victor answered with a brighter, totally not fake grin. He made a show of tipping an invisible hat to the kid, big and slow motions, then began to walk slowly down the hallway, trying with all his might to force his feet to imitate his father’s long, deliberate strides. As he walked, he puffed out his chest and stuck his nose into the air like a proper gentleman lawyer.

        It wasn’t his best imitation by far, but his exhausted ramble was rewarded when he heard William giggle.

        “Having fun, you two?” His dad called and Victor froze, this time with guilt. William seemed to have no such issue, however, and ran up to Victor immediately after their dad spoke.

        “You’re okay!” The kid announced loudly. Victor winced back from the noise, the beginnings of a stress headache already making itself known.

        “Yeah, yeah, I’m-”

        “Is it true you got arrested?”

        Nice tact. Victor sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

        “Is it true that you threatened a police officer with a chainsaw?” William blinked up at him, at once worried and concerningly enthused. Victor raised an eyebrow.

        “Bone saw.”

        “Oh.” William deflated slightly. “That’s not nearly as cool.”

        Victor shrugged. He was running out of things to say to William at an embarrassingly quick rate. Entertaining the kid was one thing. Engaging? Another beast entirely. Victor just wanted to sleep. No, actually, he wanted to see Henry; make sure that the man was still alive; check his pulse himself, then pass out for the next twenty-five years. A coma was the ideal route here. He just needed to convince his body to take the final dive into non-functioning and he’d be set.

        He glanced to the kitchen once more. His father didn’t look like he was leaving anytime soon and he wasn't asking after Victor. His gaze wandered to the stairs.

        “William-” Victor began.

        “He’s in your room.” The kid cut him off. Worry had returned to his brother’s impish features with a heavy certainty.

        Victor nodded. Another glance to the kitchen. Considering.

        “I’m going to go see him, okay?”

        William frowned. “Are you allowed?”

        “I mean...probably. It’s not like I can get in more trouble anyway.”

        William didn’t try and stop him.

        Victor stood for a second at the stop of the stairs, staring silently on as the hall in front of him stretched and morphed, the tightly woven floorboards splintering before his eyes, the walls yawning and sighing in sync with his pounding heart. The ceiling was caving in and Victor was too tall to fit, but somehow he managed the journey. He managed and stumbled on and reached the door and stared it down like the sign across the front may spring to life and choke his out. Bright red, cheerful letters spelling out  Victor Frankenstein.  A smaller set of blue ones just beneath, clumsily made out of construction paper and peeling from the doorframe, declaring the room to house a  Henry  as well.

        It had always been them, hadn’t it?

        Henry and Victor.

        Victor chewed the inside of his cheek. He had so much explaining to do and he didn’t even understand the half of it. He had so much to make up to Henry and he didn’t even have the depth. He had so much he wanted to apologize for and the words already felt shriveled and  dead  on his tongue.

        He stared at the name  Henry . The panic was alive within his chest now, a twisting, writhing, real thing and no matter what came next, no matter the consequences, Victor needed to know that Henry lived and breathed if he was ever to draw his own breath again. So, with a shaky hand, Victor reached up and knocked.

        The silence roared in his ears before a small voice split through the dark. “Alphonse?”

        Victor took one step back. Then another. No, no, he had to do this. He had to do this now or he’d never again have the stomach to face him.

        “Victor.” He called as a way of reply.

        He waited. The doorknob rattled and Victor felt a shot of alarm race up his spine, bracing himself like one about to be gunned down point blank. The door swung askew and there was Henry, leaning against the doorframe. It was too dark to distinguish his face, but the small shake of the shoulder was all it took for Victor know, all it took for him to feel acutely the pain that hung in the air around Henry like a sheen. It floored him.

        Victor clutched desperately at the things he wanted to say, but found nothing within his grasp. He couldn’t speak and neither, it seemed, could Henry.

        But he needed to. He  needed to,  so Victor ripped the words from his mouth.

        “You’re okay?” It was a question or, at least, Victor thought so. A question and a conformation and a cry of relief. Henry glanced down.

        “More…more or less.” The voice was odd, a pale imitation of the hurt Victor had grown used to bearing with Henry as a child, an overwhelming pulse of everything he’d forgotten how to bear as an adult. Victor swallowed hard. It was also a lie.

        “I- can I?” Victor reached for the light switch, but Henry stopped him quickly.

        “No. Don’t- don’t do that yet. Okay?” Henry stepped back, farther into the shadow, obscuring his face completely. Unease hung thickly in the air. “Are you okay?”

        Was Victor okay? No. Almost certainly not.

        “I- I’m better...better with you here.” Victor stared at the space between the darkness where he knew Henry’s hand hung. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching for it and found himself immensely grateful when Henry didn’t protest, just let him press his fingers into the skin. Pulse, pulse. There. Victor felt the tension leave his body in one fell swoop.

        “Henry.” He didn’t release his grip on the hand. Henry didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry.”

        He tried to push everything he could into the words. Every late night. Every waking hour. Every evening spent apart, every time he could have, should have, didn’t. Every moment he’d thought about the future and every second Henry had stitched himself farther into it without even trying. Every long car ride, every missed phone call, every camping trip, every bandage and bruise, every visit to the hospital on those days when he couldn’t even tell reality from poetry, every day spent making Henry lunches, every afternoon indulging Victor’s rants, every dip in the creek behind their house before Victor had learned that it was improper to see Henry naked. Everything.

        Every hour they’d spent lying side by side staring at the ceiling, just two kids trying to find constellations in the dark.

        And then there was the heart of it. Because if Victor didn’t do it now, he never would. Because if Henry didn’t hear it now, he never would.

        So he leapt.

        “Also I think I’m in love with you.”

 

* * *

 

        Jascha didn’t really get up the next morning. He didn’t really have a reason to get up the next morning. What was he going to do, read more magazines? Clean the house again and risk some rare fungal infection? So he stayed in. It was raining, anyway. That meant all the outdoor practices were canceled (which were all the practices, pretty much.) He couldn’t face the idea of being downstairs with the other guys after last night. Mason, Brendon, and the other three couldn’t seem to get through an hour without cussing some other guy they knew out as gay, usually in words much harsher than Jascha would ever be able to say out loud. After last night, he knew he fell into the category of guys that needed to “get right or get wrecked.”

        So he curled up in a ball in his bed and cried. Like, real tears out of real emotion rather than out of panic. He felt unclean, angry, and guilty. He was vaguely aware of Mason coming by and knocking on his door, asking whether he was alright or not. He said he had a bad cold. He didn’t dare go down to get food, so he nibbled on a granola bar that Ernest had given him sometime last week. He felt restless; like there was more he should be doing or saying. He wanted to check in with Ernest. But after last night, what could he possibly say?

        Nighttime fell without him moving more than an inch. He decided at 10PM that he needed to shower and brush his teeth. As he entered the bathroom, he looked at his face in the mirror. He considered shutting off the lights like he usually did, but he couldn’t see the point. He’d broken whatever vow of chastity he’d made to his body. Looking at it seemed tame compared to being kissed in it and aroused with it. So he kept the lights on. He unclothed himself slowly, taking in each change in his body. He rolled up his sweater, revealing the menacing I-scar that reached from below his belly button all the way up to his solar plexus. He looked at the skin of his chest and stomach; smooth and an almost normal tone, interrupted by the faintest stain of ash that seemed never to be completely gone, however healthy he felt. He was lean from his strange metabolism and his limited diet, allowing the muscles he had to be fairly clear. The skin tone was constant past his neck and arms but changed at his wrists, only very slightly, but enough so that Jascha felt it was obvious. The scars there were still deep and pink, despite being nearly completely closed.

        His face was his own; he knew that much. Save for the unfamiliar blue eyes that gleamed back at him from the mirror. His hair, too, was pretty much the same. It was a soft black that fell around his neck, long enough to be worn back in a small ponytail. He knew his face was pleasant; his features were delicate, and his long lashes would make girls like Ashley jealous.

        Once he’d adjusted to the site of his body from the waist up, he moved down. He took off his pajama pants, leaving them unceremoniously piled on the floor with his sweatshirt. He didn’t mind the look of his legs and groin as much, partially because there were fewer scars and partially because he just saw his lower half more frequently when he was getting dressed. This made it a little less of a mystery. He ran a hand over the top of his thigh, feeling his body heat and the muscles that made up his quads. He was pretty sure that whoever had these legs before him had been an athlete—a sprinter maybe. He knew his penis fairly well at this point, despite the shame of it. The scar was nearly completely hidden, which made it a little easier to feel like it was his. At least that helped with the guilt.

        He ran a hand over the part of the scar on his stomach that Ernest had touched last night. He wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t stopped Ernest’s hands, considering the trepidation he’d expressed when Jascha offered to do the same for him. If he’d known it was a possibility, he probably would have been alright letting things escalate. God, if he ever had the opportunity again, he’d let things go as far as Ernest would let them. He felt the dizzy feeling again and a rush of blood to his loins, indicating that it was time to take a cold shower.

 

        He took a long shower this time around, finally taking some time to get to know the appearance of his own skin under light. By the end, he felt like he didn’t look quite as frightening as he had in his head. He was surprised by his own relief. As he dried off, he heard the door to Ernest’s room open and close, which successfully killed whatever semblance of calm his shower had granted him. He wrapped his towel around his waist and brushed his teeth quickly, then stood for a moment to listen for any sound from Ernest’s room. He heard Ernest drop his bag, and the creak of his bed as he climbed into it. After a minute he heard his voice.

        “Uh, hey, Henry. It’s Ernest. I got your message...sorry I couldn’t come to the phone then,” A pause. “Do...you think you could, like, maybe call me back? Like, really soon? I, uh, kinda have some...a lot of questions. Jascha is here, by the way. He’s...You know. Safe.” Another pause. When Ernest spoke again, his voice was shaky. “Henry, I really need you to call me back. I...You know how, uh, Mom had that thing...Victor, too, sometimes, where he like, gets really, really sad or whatever, and wants to do something dumb like jump off a building or walk into traffic?” Ernest drew a sharp breath. “I...I think I might be sad, Henry. See you later.”

        Jascha was so far beyond feeling bad at this point for eavesdropping on Ernest. But he knew Victor, vaguely. He didn’t really want to talk to Ernest right now, but he ended up having to fight his own instincts to knock on the door and make sure he was okay. He told himself that if Ernest wanted his support, he’d have to come and ask for it. He put his toothbrush away and went back to his room.

        He was out of clean sweatshirts, since he only had one and he wore them every single hour of every day in order to hide his scars. He hadn’t done laundry, and he couldn’t face putting the one he’d worn last night back on. He looked at his wrists, at the perfect circular scar that wrapped around each one. He could probably just claim they were surgical. He pulled on a T-shirt and another pair of sweatpants, tousling his hair with the towel until it was fluffed up and half-dry. He’d closed his door to the bathroom in the hopes that it would dissuade his interest in spying on Ernest, but he still caught himself glancing at it. He was still mad at Ernest. A little. He felt as though he’d been used the night before, and he still felt embarrassed. But he also felt deeply worried about him. He’d been turbulent for the past few days in a way that far exceeded even how he’d been after Ashley. Somehow, his tone in the message he left for Henry was more unsettling than him punching a hole through his bedroom wall.

        In order to avoid running back into the bathroom and knocking on Ernest’s door until he let him in, Jascha gathered himself and went downstairs. He needed to eat more than a granola bar, and as much as he disliked 7PM with the guys, he figured it would be a good distraction. As he entered the kitchen, Mason followed him in, hovering by the sink as Jascha cooked a microwave pizza.

        “How are you feeling?” Mason finally asked.

        “Better,” Jascha answered. “Sleeping all day helped.”

        Mason nodded. “Yeah, I had this really awful cold once. Fever and everything.”

        Jascha didn’t look at him. “That must have sucked. I just had a headache and some chills.”

        “Yeah, it was shitty. Came during football season.” Jascha saw Mason shift slightly on his feet. “You know how I got it?” Mason asked.

        “No,” Jascha said. He watched the seconds go down. 2:39 left.

        “I fucked this chick. From the field hockey team. She’d said she had a fever, but came to a party anyways. She coughed a couple times, but she’s notorious for giving good head so I just went with it. Next day though? Sick as a dog.” Mason came and stood next to him.

        Jascha looked down to meet his gaze, as he had maybe five or six inches on him. “Sorry about that,” he said.

        “You know, it’s funny.” Mason kept his eye contact. “Ernest said he had a bad cold, too.”

        “Must be going around,” Jascha said. He felt his heartbeat spike. “We share a bathroom.”

        “Yeah,” Mason said slowly. “Sure. That could be it.” Mason took a deep breath in. “Take care of yourself. And let me know if you need me to get you some cold remedy.”

        As Mason headed back for the TV room, the timer on the microwave beeped. Jascha grabbed his pizza and some water, and moved back upstairs as quickly as he could without making noise. Once there, he’d lost his appetite.


	16. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry is reunited. Victor speaks to himself. Jascha is nervous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! As always, thank you for reading and we love hearing from you!
> 
> Trigger warnings for: internalized homophobia, panic attacks, and discussions of hospitalization.

        “I think I’m in love with you.” Those were the words that Victor said, the words Henry knew in his heart were true, but they still crashed into him. He couldn’t say anything, but he gently tugged Victor into his room. They stumbled through the darkness with Henry using Victor as support until they reached the bed. They sat in silence for a moment. Victor’s fingers were long, cool, and shaking against Henry’s palm.

        “Do you hate me?” he asked. His eyes were bloodshot and tired and seemed to shine despite the darkness of the room.

        “No,” Henry finally found the courage to say. “No, I love you, Victor. More than I’ve loved anyone.”

        Silence hung between them again. Was Victor crying? In the dark it was hard to tell, but his breathing quickened and his shoulders shook. Henry reached out to comfort him, but he jerked away.

        “Why?” Victor asked, “Why me? I’ve been nothing but terrible to you.” Henry ran his thumb over Victor’s knuckles. They were rougher than he expected. Perhaps if he turned the lights on he would realize they were bruised. But from what? Henry wasn’t sure.

        “That’s not true. We’ve had a lot more life together than just the past month.” Henry moved closer and entwined their fingers. “It’s been bad and we have a lot of things we need to work out. But we can handle it. Together. Like we always have.” Victor’s grip tightened and he rested his head on Henry’s injured shoulder. It hurt. It hurt a lot, but if Victor noticed he might panic more. Even that thought couldn’t keep back the small noise of pain from his throat.

         “I’m sorry. I thought...I’m sorry. Are you alright? I didn’t mean…” Victor did, indeed, panic and withdraw from Henry.

        “It’s not your fault...My arm is just…” he trailed off. His arm was injured? His muscle was ruined? He would have scars that would never go away? What was he supposed to say that could make the situation any better.

        “Your arm was hurt in the crash?” Victor reached out again.

        “It’s not just...listen...do you want to get this over with now, or later? It’s not like I can keep it hidden forever.” Henry took a deep breath. He could do this. It would hurt, but he could do it.

        “We can do this now and save happier things for later,” Victor said with a sigh.

        “It’s not that bad...I mean, it is that bad. But I guess not in the grand scheme of things? I don’t know,” Henry bit his lip and he tasted the smallest amount of blood. “Victor, can you turn on the lights?”

        Victor reluctantly got out the bed. Light hurt Henry’s eyes after sitting in the dark for so long, but he was glad Victor was across the room. Even so, he turned his head away. Shame crept into his cheeks and tears into his eyes.

        “Henry. I...I’m so sorry,” Victor returned to sit next to him in the bed, but Henry couldn’t make himself look into his eyes. “Can I touch you?” he asked.

        Henry nodded and Victor placed his hands on his cheeks and lifted Henry’s gaze to meet his own. He wiped tears away with the pad of his thumb. For a moment, they made eye contact. Victor’s eyes glowed with fear and worry and love. Henry had to close his eyes. How could he have done this? How could he be so irresponsible and make Victor afraid. Victor Frankenstein. He was a man who feared neither god nor death and yet, Henry could make him afraid.

        “Hey hey hey,” Victor whispered as he pressed their foreheads together. “It’s going to be okay.”

        “It’s going to mark my face forever,” Henry’s voice was something less than a whisper.

        “That’s not true. It’ll heal. Scars fade. It’s okay,” Victor pulled Henry into a hug. He felt Victor’s heart beating against his own chest. The steady rhythm brought him back down to reality a little bit.

        “How can you even bear to look at me?” Henry asked into his shoulder.

        Victor pulled away from Henry, but still kept him wrapped in his arms. He rubbed comforting circles into his shoulder blades. Henry’s eyes stung and he imagined he must look like a beast from the depths of the lake.

        “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” Victor settled close to Henry. He said nothing, but cocked his head. “It’s true. Everything about you. Your hair. Your skin. Your eyes. They’re like warm honey. Your-”

        “I have my father’s eyes,” Henry interrupted. The yellow, venomous things flashed behind his eyes and he clutched Victor tighter.

        “No,” Victor stumbled for the right words. “No, I’ve seen your father’s eyes and they’re nothing alike.”

        “I’m just scared,” Henry closed his eyes again and whispered. “What if I become like him?”

        “You could never-”

        “He loved me once, when I was little. Then, when he got angry, he would run away and not come back until something terrible happened.” Henry’s voice broke. “Is that me? Is that what’s happening?”

        “No, no. It’s really not,” Victor pulled Henry closer again and held him against his chest.

        “I don’t think it was an accident,” Henry said. Victor could feel his hands clutching the back of his shirt. “I told Ernest I wish it killed me.”

        “I would have missed you so much. For the rest of my life,” Victor pulled him tighter. He was safe.

        “I would have missed you too,” Henry relaxed into Victor’s arms. A moment of gentle silence hung in the air. “Can I kiss you?”

        “Please,” Henry’s heart pounded in his chest so hard he was sure Victor could hear.  When their lips met, warmth and light flooded into his chest. Victors lips were soft and warm against Henry’s. Even though the kiss only lasted a moment and was chaste as a lily, Henry felt his head buzz. Without wasting a second, Henry twined his arms around Victor’s neck and pressed his nose into his hair. It was clean and smelled like cedar-wood. “I’m so glad you’re back. Tell me everything that happened.”

        So, they did.

        Henry lay against Victor’s chest and listened to his heart as he told the story. On the one hand, he was flattered that Victor could threaten a police officer over his safety. On the other, he was disturbed that he could threaten a police officer with a bone saw.

        “So, William wasn’t kidding,” Henry said as Victor played with his hair. “You really are in trouble this time.” Victor stopped and Henry pressed his head into his hands.

        “I think dad might have to enact rule three,” Victor’s voice shook.

        Henry wanted to panic, but he could feel Victor worrying into his hair. This was fine. It could be okay. Maybe if he could just...maybe. He took a deep breath. “Let me talk to Alphonse,” he said. “I’ve been thinking that it’s time I got a therapist. A real one this time. And maybe that could help you too,” he paused for a moment and laughed half-heartedly. “It doesn’t make a ton of sense to jump straight to the nightmare scenario.”

        “Do you think it would work?” Victor asked.

        “I’m not sure,” Henry curled in on himself a little tighter. “I think he might at least consider it. He’s a reasonable man and he loves you.”

        “What if it doesn’t?”

        “Then you’ll go away and you’ll come back eventually...and it will be hard...but it’ll be okay,” Henry sighed. Alphonse will listen to him. He had to. Henry knew he didn’t want to go through with it, but if it was for Victor’s own safety then there would be little he could do. “Do you want me to talk to him now?”

        Henry felt Victor’s breathing settle beneath his head and arms. “No sense delaying the inevitable. Maybe then...if worst comes to worst we’d have a nice last few days together.”

        “Yeah,” Henry said, feeling very small. “Yeah, I’m going to need help.” He tried to push himself up, but his right arm wasn’t quite ready for that type of exertion yet, even with the real medicine.

        Victor and Henry walked arm in arm downstairs to greet Alphonse, still working in the kitchen. “Excuse me?” Henry asked. “May I please speak with you?” he cast his eyes towards William who was helping his dad crack eggs. “Alone please? Sorry, bud.”

        Alphonse straightened up and adjusted his shirt. “Absolutely. Victor, can you help Henry into my study?”

        Alphonse’s study was the scariest room in the house. Not necessarily because  bad  conversations happened there, but because it was the room where he could pick to the heart of their emotions. Henry was basically an open book, as far as all that was concerned, but Alphonse still had a way of tearing straight into the meat of the matter and leaving him feeling exhausted and vulnerable.

        Victor settled him in a leather chair that practically enveloped Henry. Alphonse followed close behind. “If you need anything, I’ll be upstairs,” Victor said. He touched his shoulder for a moment longer than he would have otherwise before he left. Even that could not escape Alphonse’s watchful eyes.

        “Have you and Victor been talking?” he asked. His low voice almost reverberated in Henry’s chest.

        “We have...We’ve talked about a lot of things. A lot about our relationship...and how we feel about...each other,” Henry said. He found it difficult to force the words out even though he trusted Alphonse wholeheartedly.

        “That’s good. I’ve had the feeling that conversation's been a long time coming,” he said, eyes not leaving Henry’s.

        “We also talked about what happened the past few days and what we should do to make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Alphonse kept staring as Henry spoke. He didn’t look angry, Henry didn’t think; maybe worried or intrigued, but not angry. “Victor told me what happened at the police station.” Henry knew he wasn’t beholden to Alphonse’s rules the way Victor was, but he felt compelled to follow them anyway.

        “What did he say?” Alphonse moved forward in his chair just the smallest bit.

        “He told me what happened and told me you talked to him and told me you might have to…” it was difficult for Henry to finish. Alphonse reached forward and put a hand on Henry’s knee. “I...I told Victor it would be alright, even if it did come to that. It’s just...I don’t think I can handle that. Not again.”

        “I know. I don’t want to, but I must. It’s for his own, and for your safety,” Alphonse looked upset.

        “I was thinking,” Henry said, “Maybe we could try getting a therapist or a psychiatrist or something instead of just jumping to...rule three.” Alphonse expression softened. Henry couldn’t even bring himself to say the words. “I...I need help.”

        For the first time, Henry saw Alphonse seem surprised. “You?” he asked.    

        “It wasn’t an accident,” is all Henry managed to say before he dissolved into tears. “I just think...it might help...to have some sort of consistent…” Henry kept trying to explain. This was far too important to let his emotions get in the way. Alphonse pulled him into a hug.

        “For you, of course. For Victor, I’ll think about it. We’ve had these types of--” there was frantic knocking at the door. “We’re having a conversation, Victor. Please come back when we’re finished.”

        “Dad, it’s Ernest. I think it’s an emergency,” Henry could hear Victor’s leg bouncing on the other side of the door.

        Alphonse opened the door and a panicked Victor entered the study.

        “What’s happening?” the calm returned to Alphonse’s voice.

        “Ernest called the phone in my room asking for Henry to call him back. He said he felt sad like when me or mom wanted to do something stupid...like walk into traffic,” Victor said. Alphonse reached forward, struggling for words, but Henry was already at the phone.

        “Dad?” Ernest asked.

        “No, it’s Henry. What’s wrong?”

        “Can dad hear me?” Ernest asked.

        “No,” Henry looked at Alphonse. He and Victor were arguing quietly. “No, it’s all good. What’s up?”

        “I had been thinking about what you said the other day. I...I went to talk to Jascha about it...and..and...and,”

        “It’s okay,” Henry said taking a deep breath. “Breathe, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth.” He heard Ernest struggling to breath.

        “I told Jascha to kiss me...like a girl...and he did...and I liked it. I liked it a lot. And...and we were going to do...more...and I panicked...and...I don’t know...I’m going to lose everything.” Ernest stopped breathing again and the ends of his words were caught in his throat.

        “It’s okay,” Henry soothed, “You’re not going to lose everything. Breathe with me, okay.” Henry took a few slow breaths and waited until Ernest matched him. “Okay, it’s the problem with the soccer team, right? Okay, you don’t have to tell them. No one’s entitled to know anything.”

        “What’s going to happen? I’ve never been more...you know...in my entire life. It’s clearly what I...It’s just? If they find out and I’m kicked off the team then the frat will know and then they’ll know about Jascha and I’ll have no one left. There will be nobody.”

        “I know it’s hard. You’ll have me left. It’s okay. If you want to--” he glanced at Victor and Alphonse, “--tell, then tell. If not, then not. You just had a bad breakup and are taking it easy. That’s all it takes.”

        “That won’t last forever,” Ernest sighed. It seems like he sat down.

        “You wouldn’t have to tell them anything regardless. You won’t be in undergrad forever. People will stop constantly caring about your relationship status. Besides, there are always going to be ways to keep you safe, okay.”

        “Yeah, yeah dude. We can deal with it.” Perfect, some of Ernest’s verbal tics were coming back.

        “Wonderful. Crisis averted?” Henry asked, hopefully.

        “Crisis averted,” he paused for a beat. “Are you going to tell Victor? Or my dad?”

        “Won’t tell either of them anything unless you give me the go ahead.” Henry looked up and both Alphonse and Victor raised their eyebrows and cocked their heads. “Ummm,” he clarified, “I might be obligated to tell your father if you think you’re going to have a Victor level freakout.”

        “No, dude, I think I’ve come down a little bit, you know? Thanks.”

        “It’s no problem. I didn’t think it would come to that either. Do you want to meet up sometime and I can talk to you more about this?” Henry wrapped the phone cord around his wrist nervously. For all his relative out-ness, he didn’t talk about this type of thing with people other than Elizabeth and Justine a ton.

        “Yeah, man, I think that would be...good,” Ernest sounded more relaxed. “I’ll text you later?”

        “Uhh,” Henry stalled, “I don’t exactly know where my phone went...I’d say text Victor, but I don’t think that’s gonna fly.”

        “Yeah, no,” his voice was sharp.

        “Didn’t think so, maybe Justine? I haven’t seen her in a bit, but I’m sure I will soon.”

        “Sounds good, my man,” Ernest said. “I’ll see you soon,” and he hung up.

        There was a moment of silence before Alphonse spoke. “Henry, I’m sure you understand how important my son’s wellbeing is to me.”

        “It’s okay. He’ll tell you what’s happening when he’s ready.” It felt viscerally wrong to contradict Alphonse Frankenstein.

        He placed a heavy hand on Henry’s good shoulder. “When you see him, please tell him I love him, no matter what’s wrong.”

 

* * *

 

 

        The evening progressed into something painfully normal from there. Despite the impending doom which hung over him, despite the sudden, hungry fatigue of Henry’s figure, despite the lingering sensation of Henry’s hands and Henry’s hair and Henry’s soft, sickeningly sweet mouth on his own, despite the  weird  feeling of knowing Ernest, his perfect, flawless brother, might be dipping his toes into Victor’s deep end of the pool called crazy, they just kinda sat around. Ate the eggs William had made (Victor with some difficulty). Watched a cartoon Victor hadn’t seen since he was nine. Johnny Bravo had never been more eerie.

 

        Victor curled up tightly and when his dad went to bed before ten, still more worried than decisive, he was left sandwiched on the leather couch between a fidgety William and a near-to-passed out Henry. A normal weekday night at the Frankensteins.

        Or, well, a more normal evening would be sixteen-year-old Elizabeth sitting on the floor with Justine whispering while Ernest slouched in the side chair, occasionally shooting Victor annoyed glances as he blabbered on about the technical inaccuracies of the experiments in Dexter’s Laboratory. Henry would giggle and Victor would grin with pride at having made him so and William would alternate between yanking on Victor’s hair and sitting peacefully in Ernest’s lap. But all of that was an unreachable luxury right now.

        Henry shifted in his half-sleep and Victor’s heart stuttered as the the other lay his head against his chest. Right, he kept having to remind himself, that was something. A small something, barely a something, but something nonetheless. He stared down at Henry’s face, at the scarring cut which ran across it.  You did this.  There was no getting around that thought, around the obvious despair Henry’s appearance was breeding within him. He had been worried Victor wouldn’t even be able to look at him.  Sorry, Henry,  Victor had desperately wanted to say,  I’ve seen and made worse scars than you. Maybe if you had ripped your stomach open and spilled out some guts, I might have been repulsed.  But he derailed that thought as quickly as he was able. He pressed his fingers into Henry’s wrist again, perhaps too hard, and Henry’s beautiful amber eyes flitted up to him.

        “I’m here.” The man muttered.

        Victor ran one hand through his hair. “So am I.”

        Henry’s eyes slid shut once more.

        On his other side, William shifted and Victor shot him a nervous look. The younger kid glanced away quickly.

        It was like eleven. Did William have a bedtime? Was Victor responsible for enforcing that bedtime? This situation was stressful and it wasn’t even a situation. Victor tried to focus on the television, but his thoughts were already running to unsought places, bloody handprints and cold water and lightning strikes. And Jascha. And Ernest who, apparently, lived with him now. Victor still hadn’t had time to process all that in between the chaos of being in love and stupid. Ensuring maximum carnage to accompany his poor life decisions. He was very good at that. Maybe he should quit being a scientist and go into politics. Maybe he should quit being a scientist and start paying Jascha alimony checks. Was it...did he need those? Victor couldn’t imagine his creation securing a job in the few weeks since his birth, but then again, Victor couldn’t imagine Jascha becoming a frat boy so it was up in the air, really. He...he really shouldn’t be calling Jascha his creation, should he? Even if he was the product of Victor’s talent, or folly, or whatever, it wasn’t like he’d done much more than stitch the man up and shove him around the lab for a half hour. Whatever...whoever Jascha was, Victor didn’t have much to do with it. God, it would just figure that he’d managed to achieve science-fiction level science only to end up reduced to nothing more than a negligent, deadbeat dad.

        Victor should probably...do something about this. Before his father finally pulled the figurative trigger and sent him away again (because no matter what Henry said, Victor could sense the shifting trouble in the air and if push came to shove, he was the neatest object to stow away). He could go see-- no, wait, he was under house arrest. He could try to call Ernest. That would end horribly, especially if his brother was having a rough time of things too. Victor wondered what was going on there. He would normally guess something mundane, like a failed soccer game or an issue with a friend, but from the half-heard conversation, this was a matter not even Dad could understand.

        Victor knew Ernest wasn’t bound to truth with their father the same way he was, but still. Nobody kept secrets from their dad. Nobody. Either Ernest was high off his ass (which would be surprising considering the kid’s dedication to DARE levels of cleanliness) or he was in deep trouble. Perhaps even Victor-level trouble.

        The vindictive part of him wanted to celebrate that his better, faster, more social brother was finally facing the same kind of shit Victor was used to battling on a daily basis. But the currently stronger half of him, the half that often sounded like Henry, was ashamed for even letting the thought cross his mind. He wasn’t supposed to be acting like a bad person, especially since he’d gone and confessed his feelings to Henry. He had a responsibility now not to drag Henry down with him. Not that he hadn’t before, but friends, even best friends, was still a far cry away from whatever this was.

        Victor couldn’t drown with Henry clinging to his arm.

        He considered his options. To text Ernest, or not to? What was the worst that could happen, anyway? Ernest already hated his guts with a passion unmatched by even his classmates.

        “So are you and Uncle Henry like…?”

        Victor startled, one hand clamping onto Henry’s wrist like a startled cat digging his claws in, and turned to William.

        “I’m not gay.” Victor panicked.

        Henry groaned. “Victor.” Victor glanced down. Henry raised an eyebrow, obviously awake now, and glanced to his wrist. Victor released it hastily.

        “I mean,” Victor looked back to William, “I...it’s complicated.”

William looked between Henry, still leaned fully against Victor’s chest, one hand twisted into his t-shirt, and Victor’s bright red face. He nodded slowly. “Okay. I’m...I’m going to go to bed now.”

“Okay.” William stood and stretched. Victor paused. “Don’t forget to brush your teeth!”

He finally called after the kid. William gave him a thumbs up.

        “So…” Victor looked back to Henry, whose eyes had slid closed again. “You’re not gay, huh?”

        “No, I am. I mean, obviously, I-” Victor hesitated. “I’ve, uh. Never actually said it out loud is all.”

        Henry didn’t say anything just nodded into his chest. He didn’t seem very talkative and Victor could tell it wasn’t due to sleepiness.

        “I’m sorry.” He tried again. “I didn’t want William to-”

        “It’s okay, Victor. Really.” Henry didn’t sound upset, but he did sound a bit hurt. “You’ll come around to it eventually. It takes some time.”

        “Yeah.” He should have been used to it. He’d certainly been through all this before, the initial panic, the admitting things to family members (though, admittedly, Elizabeth had figured it out and confronted him first so maybe that didn’t count). Hell, he’d even been in a few gay clubs while he was overseas. It just...was weird to admit to himself that there was no way this could just be a phase anymore.

        He shifted under Henry, trying to judge whether or not it was better pretend he didn’t know that the other man was faking sleep or not. Henry hadn’t pulled away, at the very least. This was probably fine.

        Probably.

        He still needed to do something. Victor pulled his phone out of his pocket and clicked down to find Ernest’s contact info.

_ Hey, I know we don’t- _

        He deleted that.

        _Hey, everything okay?_

        Good. That was vague enough that Ernest would probably just ignore it. And, if he didn’t, then Victor could press.

        Victor scooted down on the couch, letting Henry shift farther onto him. “You sure, things are okay?” He asked.

        “Yeah.” Henry said. “Everything’s okay, Victor.”

        Victor chose to believe him that time.

 

* * *

 

 

        After the conversation with Mason, Jascha picked at the pizza until it was eaten. The whole process took about an hour. He wanted to leave. He wanted Ernest to leave. There was no way for the two of them to talk privately outside of the frat without generating more interest from Mason and whoever else had enough brain cells left to be suspicious.

        He could hear Ernest pacing again, and the low hum of his voice, but from his room he couldn’t hear what he was saying. He assumed (hoped) that it was Henry. He looked at the open bathroom door, feeling the urge to go and eavesdrop more effectively. He needed to know if Ernest was okay, or at the very least, okay enough that Jascha could keep avoiding him without putting him in harm’s way.

        After a minute of staring, he gave in and sat on the edge of the tub by the door. He caught the tail end of the phone call.

        “Sounds good my man,” Ernest said. “I’ll see you soon.”

        Good. Ernest sounded calmer than before. And at the very least he sounded like he wasn’t going to go completely nuts. Jascha allowed himself a breath of relief, leaning his head against the bathroom wall.

        He was just thinking about leaving as Ernest opened the door.

        “Holy shit!” Ernest shouted, jumping back a bit. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

        “I was, uh,” Jascha hid his wrists under his arms by his side. “About to shower.”

        Ernest looked him over, and as he did Jascha got a good look at him under the bathroom’s fluorescent lights. His eyes and nose were pink from crying, and judging from the uneasy rise and fall of his chest, he was still coming down from hyperventilating. His hair was scruffed up where he’d been running his hands through it. All in all, he looked terrible.

        “You showered earlier,” Ernest said after the two stared at one another for several seconds.

        “Yeah,” Jascha nodded, not breaking eye contact. Ernest’s big brown eyes made him look like a startled deer. “Sometimes I shower twice. You’ve showered three times in one day before.”

        “I have workouts. And then...practice. For soccer.” Ernest’s gaze grew unfocused. As his eyes welled up with tears again, he smiled. “But I guess that won’t be an issue anymore, huh?” He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at it.

        “Hey, hey,” Jascha said, standing up. “Didn’t you call someone? What did they say?”

        Ernest’s eyes focused on Jascha, and his expression turned dark. “Were you eavesdropping on me?” Jascha looked away.

        “I overheard a little,” Jascha said softly. “I was worried.”

        Ernest’s face softened a little, returning from anger back to sadness. “How much?”

        “I heard part of your message to Henry,” Jascha looked back at Ernest. “And the very end of your conversation just now.”

        “So you know that I’m, like, completely nuts?” Ernest shifted in discomfort.

        “You aren’t nuts,” Jascha sighed. “You’re just...really psyched out about everything.”

        Ernest looked away. There was a beat before he spoke again. “Can I, uh, maybe shower? And then, like,” He looked back at Jascha. He gestured vaguely in the direction of Jascha’s room. “...you know?”

        Jascha took a deep breath. He didn’t really have the emotional stamina for a repeat of the night before, but he didn’t think Ernest did either. “Yeah. Sure, of course.”

        Jascha left the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Once in his room, he double checked that the door was locked. For good measure, he slid the desk in front of it, as quietly as he could. When Ernest was out of the bathroom he’d do the same in his room. He wasn’t sure how sound-proof these rooms were, and thus had no sense of how much the other guys could be hearing when they talked. Ernest wasn’t exactly quiet during these episodes of grief and panic. Jascha shivered. He wasn’t sure whether it was because his room was drafty, or because of what might happen if the others heard them.

        Now that he was alone, he had some space to worry about what would come next. He was wearing a T-shirt, and one of Henry’s at that. It was considerably small for him, meaning that whenever he lifted his arms or moved at all it had a habit of sliding up and exposing part of his back or stomach. He knew the scar on his stomach was nasty, but he was also vaguely aware that there was an equally intense one along his spine, presumably from when Victor was reconnecting nerves, or whatever was back there. There was also the issue of his wrists, which had the strange circular scars in addition to the one on his palm. He could probably come up with an excuse for those. The abdominal one or the ones around his neck and shoulders would be harder.

        Ernest’s shower was on the quick side by his standards. Quick enough that Jascha didn’t have time to figure out how he was going to hide his skin, other than by throwing the two into complete darkness. Within a couple minutes of the water shutting off, he heard a quiet knock on the bathroom door.

        “Yeah,” Jascha said. “Come in.”

        Ernest came in wearing an old soccer shirt and some clean athletic pants. He had a towel over his head and was still drying his hair. He shuffled over and sat next to Jascha on the bed. Now that he was clean, his face looked a little better, though that could also be due to the lower lighting in Jascha’s room.

        “Feel better?” Jascha asked gently. He tucked his hands against his sides, trying not to look too weird or uncomfortable. Ernest just nodded. “Do you, uh...wanna talk?” Ernest shook his head. “Okay…”

        “Do you hate me?” Ernest finally asked. He’d stopped drying his hair but still kept the towel over his head, hiding his eyes.

        “What?” Jascha asked.

        “After last night,” Ernest’s voice was barely audible. “Do you hate me?”

        “No,” Jascha said, unconvinced by his own voice. He certainly didn’t hate him, but he still felt hurt and frustrated.

        “Would you do it again?” Ernest asked tentatively. Jascha could feel the anxiety on him like static. He took a deep breath and thought for a minute.

         “I think so,” Jascha finally said. Ernest peered up at him from under the towel.

        “Cool,” Ernest said. “I think...I think I would, too.” He pulled the towel off his head and let it drop on the floor. The curls were returning to his hair as it dried.

        The two men sat in awkward silence for a while: Ernest pulled lightly at one of his curls, and Jascha kept his hands buried by his sides. Jascha felt dumb. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He would do it again; he’d be willing to do more than just it again. But he didn’t know whether that information would come as a comfort to Ernest. It may just come as a horror.

        “Is your door locked?” He finally spoke. Ernest blinked at him in confusion.

        “I mean, I don’t think so. Should it be?” Ernest asked.

        Jascha nodded, and gestured to his own door. “I’d feel better if I knew no one could get in.” Ernest got up and went back to his own room. Jascha heard the lock click and the sound of Ernest pulling his own desk over to the door. After a minute, Ernest returned.

        “Better?” Ernest asked, climbing back onto the bed.

        “Yeah,” Jascha said. “Thanks.” He relaxed his shoulders a little, but didn’t move his hands away from his sides.

        Ernest moved a little closer to Jascha and leaned his head against his shoulder. He smelled like soap and vaguely of cinnamon. Jascha felt himself start to move his hands so that he could wrap an arm around his shoulders, but stopped himself.

        “What’s wrong?” Ernest asked.

        “Nothing.” Jascha said quickly.

        “You’re acting kinda weird,” Ernest said. “Are you mad at me?”

        “No,” Jascha lied. He felt immediately awful about it.“Maybe a little. About last night.”

        “You said you’d do it again,” Ernest lifted his head, looking at Jascha.

        “I would,” Jascha said slowly. “But not the last part. Where you left.”

        Ernest was quiet for several seconds. “I can’t be gay, Jascha.”

Jascha sighed and leaned his head against the headboard. “I know. You’ve said that.” He said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He closed his eyes.

        “I...can’t be,” Ernest’s voice was weak. “But, like...God!” Ernest’s voice spiked with anger. He took a deep breath. “I-I can’t be. I really can’t.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But...I am. Jascha, I am.”

        Jascha opened his eyes and looked back at Ernest, who had buried his face in his hands. Jascha hesitated for a second, but put his arms around his shaking shoulders, pulling him against his chest. Ernest wrapped his arms around him, hiding his face in the space between his chest and shoulder. Jascha traced his shoulder blade lightly with his thumb.

        “That’s fine,” Jascha said. “It’s okay.”

        “What happens when everyone finds out?” Ernest said into his chest.

        “I don’t know,” Jascha said cautiously. “But that’s not something for right now.”

        Ernest sat up a little, wiping his eyes. “What do I do now, then?”

        “I don’t know. Whatever,” Jascha said. “Just so long as it’s not, like, panicking.”

        Ernest took a couple slow breaths. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He looked up at Jascha. “Can we, like...kiss, or whatever. Like last night.” He looked away, blushing a bit. “I, uh. Won’t leave.”

        Jascha leaned forward and kissed Ernest chastely on the mouth. He thought about the bedside lamp. This would be easier for him in the dark, since then there was no chance Ernest might see his scars. He pulled himself together. If Ernest asked, he’d say it was a really, really bad accident. Or cancer. Something huge and invasive.

        He was pulled from his thoughts by Ernest’s hand at the back of his head, pulling him into another kiss. He slid down slightly on the bed so that Ernest didn’t have to stretch up to reach him. He snaked his arms around Ernest’s waist, feeling him flinch slightly at the unfamiliar touch. After a second, though, he melted into it. Jascha felt the anxiety seep out of his mind as he felt Ernest’s lips part, inviting him into a deeper kiss. Jascha pulled him closer and let their tongues meet.

        He gasped as he felt Ernest roll over on top of him, though Ernest didn’t let him pull away from the kiss. He felt his hands pull at the bottom of his T-shirt. He wanted to tell Ernest not to do that; to let him keep the shirt on; but that would have forced them to stop. He thought again about the lamp. He could probably reach it. He stretched out a hand towards it, though was stopped by Ernest grabbing his hand.

        “No,” Ernest said between breaths. “I want to see you.”

        Jascha hesitated, but pulled his hand away from the lamp. “It’s bad,” was all he said. He allowed Ernest to pull the T-shirt up over his stomach, and reluctantly helped him pull it over his head, casting it to the side. Neither of them moved as Ernest took in what he was seeing: The ugly I-scar on his stomach, the ring-like scars around his wrists. Jascha looked away. He drew a shuddering breath as Ernest ran his fingers down the centerline of the scar on his stomach.

        “What…happened?” Ernest asked.

        Jascha clenched his jaw but didn’t speak. What kind of cancer would do this? Liver? Bone? He felt Ernest’s hand gently turn his face back so that they were looking at each other. Ernest leaned down and kissed him on the mouth, and then planted a few light kisses along his jaw and neck. Jascha rubbed Ernest’s back, hoping that the conversation had been avoided.

        “You can tell me,” He said into his skin. Jascha swallowed.

        “Uhhh...cancer...accident.” Jascha wanted to punch himself.

        “‘Cancer accident?’” Ernest repeated.

        “Yeah,” Jascha focused. “I, uh, got in a bad car accident. When they were operating, they found, uh, a tumor. And then more.” That sounded adequate. “Now I have really fucked up scars.”

        Ernest was quiet for a moment. “I’m really sorry, man,” he finally said. “The scars aren’t that bad.” He ran a hand back down the one on his chest. “They’re kinda hot. In a, like, battle scar kinda way.”

        “Thanks?” Jascha said. He couldn’t believe Ernest had bought that. But it did make more sense than the truth. Jascha caught his breath as Ernest removed his own shirt. He ran his hands down his sides, feeling the heat of his skin and the hitch in his breathing. Whatever mood damper talking about his scars had been, he could feel the tension dissipating.

        Ernest bent down and kissed the start of the scar on his chest. Jascha felt his body tense up and his fingers knot in Ernest’s hair. Ernest moved down his body, placing more kisses along the scar. He felt his heart pound in his chest and heat between his legs. He gasped as Ernest reached the bottom of the scar and placed his hand against his erection. Jascha couldn’t look at him, so he closed his eyes.

        “Is it okay to…?” Ernest asked softly. Jascha bit his lip and nodded.  

        Jascha held his breath as he felt Ernest slide the waistband of his pants down. Jascha grit his teeth to keep quiet as he felt Ernest’s hand wrap around his cock. He opened his eyes briefly as he felt Ernest’s lips on his mouth, and he let himself be kissed.

        Ernest pulled away slightly to catch his breath. “You can, like...if you want to…”  

        Jascha knew what he meant, and nodded weakly. He slid one hand down Ernest’s body, hesitating slightly as he brushed against the edge of his sweatpants. He felt Ernest lean against his neck, his breathing quick and uneven as he finally allowed himself to slide a hand under his boxers. Ernest tensed and moaned into his neck as Jascha matched his pace. Jascha used his free hand to stroke the back of Ernest’s head and neck. He felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest.

        Ernest shifted his head, kissing Jascha clumsily on the mouth. His cheeks were flushed. “Jascha,” he breathed. “I can’t…last” He had to catch his breath. Jascha bit his lip and forced himself to stay quiet as he felt Ernest’s pace speed up.

        “It’s okay,” Jascha whispered. Ernest pressed their foreheads together.

        Ernest gasped. “Jascha-” He covered his mouth with his hand, trying to stifle the moan as he came. Jascha kissed him hard on the mouth to keep himself quiet. He finished only seconds after Ernest. Ernest wrapped his arms around Jascha’s neck, and held him tightly. He felt a wave of guilt roll over him, but it was washed away by the bliss of the orgasm and by the smell of Ernest’s hair. The two lay against each other for several minutes without speaking.

        “I’m gonna have to shower again,” Ernest finally said. His voice sounded sleepy and comfortable.

        “Yeah...Me too.” Jascha whispered into his hair.

        “Can I sleep here tonight?” Ernest asked quietly.

        “Sure,” Jascha said. He reluctantly let Ernest sit up. He reached for a box of tissues by the bed and handed a couple to him. Ernest wiped off his stomach, and Jascha’s too.

        “It would be weird to shower together, right?” Ernest asked. His eyes were still a little glazed over. “Like, that’s a lot, right?”

        “It would be a little weird,” Jascha said. “Do you want to?”

        Ernest thought for a moment. “Maybe not tonight. Next time.” Ernest got up slowly and headed to the bathroom.

        When Jascha finished his shower, he returned to his room to find Ernest under the covers and staring at his phone bitterly. He dried off his hair and got in next to him. “What’s up?” He asked.

        “It’s, uh,” Ernest didn’t look at him. “Victor. He, like. Texted me.”

        “I thought you two didn’t talk?”

        “We don’t.” Ernest looked at him. “Should I ignore him?”

        Jascha shrugged. He needed to act indifferent. Ernest had no idea what his relationship with Victor was like, and he intended to keep it that way. “What happens if you text him?”

        “Dude, if I text him, then he wins.” Ernest’s voice was cold. “If I ignore him, though, he might text again. He has no concept of boundaries. He’s like, you know. A bratty toddler with an IQ over 140. I don’t even know how he has this number. I changed phones last year and didn’t tell him the new one.”

        “He probably got it from someone else, then.” Jascha said innocently.

        “You’re right.” Ernest immediately went to his contacts, starting a group text with Henry, Justine, and Elizabeth.

       _Which one of you gave Victor my number?_

        He also texted William.

_ Hey, Bud. You didn’t happen to have given Victor my new phone number, did you? _

“I bet it was Elizabeth. She always fucking does what he says. Even though I told her not to.” He re-opened the text from Victor.

I’m fine , he started to text.  Delete my number .

        He threw his phone onto the floor. He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “I can’t deal with all this. I can’t, like, be a fucking homo  _ and _  have to deal with Victor.” Jascha could feel the anger and fear creeping back into his voice.

        Jascha pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him. “Don’t think about it too hard.”

        “How can’t I? I mean, it’s not like I can just pass this off as a, like, drunken mistake.” Ernest rolled onto his side, not facing Jascha. “We’re, like, in it now. If the other guys find out…”

        “We won’t let them find out.” Jascha rubbed his shoulders.

        “...And I can’t go home. I, like, super can’t tell my dad. Or- or Will. I can’t hide at Justine’s. Victor might be there.” Ernest’s voice shook. “God, I’m so fucked. And I’ve screwed you over, too.”

        Jascha held him tight. “It’s okay. I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to. If the other guys find out, we’ll figure something out.”

        “You’ll, like...be there? You won’t duck out if someone finds me out?”

        “Ernest, everything they might say about you they’d also say about me,” Jascha said into his hair. “I didn’t…” he thought about everything that had happened. Being dead and then undead; finding Ernest. “I didn’t go through all this to let a bunch of jackasses scare me.” He felt Ernest relax.

        “Okay,” Ernest whispered. “Okay, yeah. Thanks. For, like, being here. With me.” Jascha felt Ernest’s hands over his own. “I- I think I should sleep, now.”

        Jascha closed his eyes, pressing his face into Ernest’s dark curls. “Goodnight, Ernest.”

        Ernest wove his fingers between Jascha’s. “Goodnight.”


	17. Work outs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry gets kissed. Victor reads poetry. Jascha goes to the gym.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! As always, please reach out! We love hearing from you.
> 
> Trigger warnings in this chapter for internalized homophobia.

        Henry didn’t quite remember moving to Victor’s room last night, but in the morning he awoke to see Victor kneeling over him with his eyes as wide as saucers. It took Henry a minute to blink past the morning light.

        “What?” he asked innocently. He felt the sun across his face and the warmth of Victor against his side.

        “You look...” Henry cracked the smallest smile as Victor stumbled for words.“I don’t know. I guess you just look...angelic.” Henry laughed to see the blush rising on Victor’s cheeks as he turned away, flustered.

        “No no no. Don’t go,” Henry reached out his arm. His sleep-bleary movements were far from the grace he intended. “I think you’re sweet, if a tad bit cliche,” he said with a wink.

        “I’m not good with words like you are,” Victor said as Henry maneuvered him closer. “Words or feelings.”

        “That’s okay,” Henry hummed. “They’re learned traits and all of that.” He settled Victor between his legs and tugged gently on his shirtfront. The sunshine hit Victor’s back and outlined his face and hair with a halo of light. His hair was clean and fluffy and for once his eyes were free of their customary dark circles. Color returned to his cheeks and he looked alive, not like the half-drowned shade he had just a week ago. Victor hovered right above his lips.

        “Kiss me?” Henry wasn’t sure if it sounded like a question or a command, but it had the desired effect anyway.

        Victor kissed as if Henry were made of glass. Henry wanted more and tipped his head back and opened his mouth. It worked but only in the most nominal sense. Victor’s soft, unpracticed hands barely ghosted Henry’s cheeks and arms. It was pleasant, for sure, and it sang his skin electric, but Henry wanted the warmth and weight of Victor’s skin on his own. When they broke away from the kiss to breathe, he sat up and held Victor against his chest.

        “Victor,” he said breathlessly into the crook of his neck, “I’m not a flower.” He pulled back to look at Victor. His eyes were half-lidded and his hair stood up wildly from when he had been sleeping. “Touch me,” he said. It was definitely a command this time.

        He didn’t drop a beat. Much to Henry’s delight, Victor wrapped his arms around his torso and urged him on his back. He continued kissing Henry. Victor ran a hand across the strip of exposed skin at the base of Henry’s stomach. His hands were cool and Henry shuddered against Victor’s chest as he twined his arms about his neck.

        Victor moved his hands along his sides, pulling up Henry’s shirt as he went. It took an awkward moment to untangle his arms from his clothing, but it was a relief to have the scratchy fabric off his heated skin. He settled down again, lain out before Victor’s eyes.

        “Is it okay if I…” Victor asked, placing his fingertips against Henry’s sternum.

        “Of course,” Henry said. Victor dragged his hand down Henry’s chest and stomach. Henry could see the marvel in his eyes as he caressed his side.

        Victor pressed a kiss to Henry’s collarbone, and then another to his chest, until he worked his way down to his stomach. Suddenly, Victor stopped and pulled Henry into an embrace, pressing his ear to his chest. Henry ran his fingers through Victor’s hair.

        “My dear, I promise my heart isn’t going to stop,” he ran his thumb along Victor’s jaw and lead him back towards his lips, where Victor kissed him again.

        Victor’s full weight was pressed flush to Henry’s chest. He kissed the shell of Henry’s ear and drew the smallest sound from his mouth. Heat pooled in the pit of his stomach. Victor sighed and rolled to his side with his legs cast across Henry’s. “I had no idea you had sensitive ears,” Victor said, nuzzling into Henry’s shoulder.

        “Neither did I,” Henry’s voice sounded light and breathless to his own ears.

        “Well, now we get to find out,” Victor kissed Henry’s neck. He wasn’t sure if it would leave a mark, but he found he didn’t particularly care.

        Henry could feel Victor’s erection against his hip. He suddenly became intensely aware of the heat of his skin and the flush across his chest and shoulders. He wished desperately that he could melt into Victor’s arms and never leave.

        “Henry?” Victor asked, fingers trailing at the waistband of his pajama pants. “May I?”

        “Please,” Henry nodded into Victor’s chest. “Please ta-”

        There was knocking at the door. What? Now? No. They must have imagined it, but still they could not tear their eyes from the doorframe. Victor scrambled up and threw a blanket over Henry.

        “Umm, who is it?” Victor said as he tried to make himself look halfway presentable. His voice was still thick with sex.

        “Your father,” came the even reply. “I have something for Henry.”

        Victor cracked the door open. “I can give it to him.”

        “Nonsense,” he said with the rise of an eyebrow. “I can give it to him myself.” He pushed gently on the door and Victor let him in. Henry could feel Alphonse’s eyes settle on him and even though he was technically completely covered with Victor’s blankets, he felt very exposed.

        Alphonse walked over to the bed and peered down at Henry. “They had your cell phone at the police station,” he said as he held it out. Henry took it and could not bear to look him in the eyes. “I meant to give it to you earlier, but other things came up,” he said with a look towards Victor. “In any case, I’ll let you two continue with your day. If you need me, I’ll be in my study.” Alphonse took long strides back towards the door before stopping in front of Victor. “You might want to consider resting more, Victor. You look a tad bit feverish.”

        The heat that had run through Henry’s blood a few minutes ago had completely vanished as did any accompanying symptoms of his condition. Victor returned to sit in the bed.

        “Do you think he noticed?”

        “Of course he did. It’s not exactly a very difficult thing to miss,” he said gesturing to the state of their clothes and hair.

        “So, now what?” Victor asked, eyes flitting nervously from Henry to the door.

        “Umm...I don’t know. Your dad’s kinda a buzzkill,” Henry gave Victor a chaste kiss to the cheek. “But some other time we’ll have to follow through.”

        Henry flipped open his phone and scrolled through his messages. They were mostly panicked texts and calls from Justine and Elizabeth. I hadn’t occurred to him then that his friends might go looking for him. In his meager defense, he hadn’t intended to be away for as long as he had. A blush of shame creeped back into his cheeks. How rash and selfish could he be, to not even think about answering his friends’ texts?

        Still, there was one message at the top that caught Henry’s attention.

        “Victor?” he asked, propping himself up on his good arm. “Did you text Ernest?” Silence covered the room like snow.

        “I...I guess I was worried,” Victor shifted awkwardly in the bed. “If it’s so bad that you can’t even tell dad, then it must be pretty bad.”

        “Victor, two things,” he turned fully to face him. “First. It’s the other way around. It actually wasn’t bad enough that I felt like I needed to tell your father.” Henry could hear the annoyance riding in his voice. “Second, he told you not the text or call. Ever. He wasn’t kidding around and you know that. How did you think doing the one thing that violates his boundaries would make the situation better?”

        “I...I don’t know. I just thought--”

        “Where did you even get his number? It wasn’t from me. He texted all of us asking.” Henry tapped his fingers against his phone.

        “From Elizabeth.” Henry raised his eyebrows and cocked his head.

        “Right. And I’m sure she just gave you that information willingly.” Now it was Victor’s turn to blush with shame.

        “I...bullied it out of her. She didn’t want to tell me.” Victor bit his lip and averted his eyes.

        “I’m not going to press because I don’t want to know. And I’m sure at this point you don’t need me to tell you that was an awful thing to do.” Victor curled in on himself.

        “Are you mad at me?” he asked.

        Henry sighed. “For coercing the number out of Elizabeth? Yes. Absolutely,” he ran his hand through his hair. “For texting Ernest? No. I mean, it’s the first compassionate thing you’ve done for anyone other than me in...I don’t know...years. It was just so, so misplaced.” Henry placed a hand on Victor’s shoulder. “I know you miss him, in your own weird way. But if he’s going to come back he has to do it because he wants to.”

        Henry got out of the bed and started searching for a clean set of clothes and a comb. He found one of Victor’s old sweaters that had since gotten way too small for him and pulled it over his head. It smelled like pinewood.

        “I’m going to go give Ernest a call. Promise me you won’t text him again if he doesn’t text first.” Victor nodded in agreement. “I promise if anything gets too bad I’ll tell your dad,” Henry walked over to the bed and pressed a small kiss to his temple. “He’s going to be alright.”

 

* * *

 

        Victor was getting pretty tired of being constantly chided. Which was simultaneously a good sign, a clear indication that his health was stabilizing in some kind of way as to allow him to experience emotions beyond violent sadness, panic, and mania, and a bad sign if his recent experiences with excessive pride were any indication. It was only this self awareness that had allowed Victor to bite his tongue when Clerval told him off, rationalizing that Henry was just trying to look out for all their best interests, but the interaction still rubbed him the wrong way and he didn’t think the prickling of his skin could be attributed to arousal any longer.

        It’s fine, Victor thought as he set about digging an old, dusty sweater out of the chest in the corner of his room, it wasn’t like this was causing harm anyway. So what if Ernest was being a prick? That was the norm for him. Honestly, Victor would be more concerned if his brother had given him a straight answer instead of sending everyone angry texts.

        Victor snatched his phone off of the bedside table.  _I’m fine. Delete my number_.

        Done and done.

        Victor’s finger lingered over the backspace on his phone’s keyboard. Ernest still had Jascha with him. He flipped the phone closed without deleting the contact and stowed it in his pocket.

        Henry was off now, somewhere else in the house calling Ernest and leaving Victor alone in the bedroom. It forced him to wonder when were those two had become close confidants. He battered off the pricks of annoyance and unchecked horniness which plagued him as he yanked on his socks. Once he had his shoes laced, he leaned back against the pillow and looked to the ceiling, letting one hand slip under the band of his boxers. At least, out of everything, he could manage  _ that _  himself.

        “Victor!”

        Or not.

        “Yes!” Victor withdrew his hand quickly. “Yes, what?”

        “Come downstairs, please. I don’t want you spending all day in your room.”

        Victor grimaced, but rose ungracefully from the bed and made his way to the living room. The house was even more imposing in the day and, with William at school, there were no small sounds to fill the space. Overwhelmed with the sudden swoop of the arches and high pillars, the cumulative impression of being trapped in their hold like the bars of a prison cell, Victor found himself unable to stay. He pushed his way outside and slid the door shut behind him carefully.

        It was a pleasant day, at least. Not too cold, not too warm. He wandered onto the lawn, half lost as to what he was supposed to be doing. He didn’t think he would be able to hike considering the state of his health, which seemed to shift at the drop of a hat, and besides, he didn’t want to stray too far from Henry. It was already enough stress to be away from him for even the fifteen minutes he’d been gone.

        Victor sat on the grass and dug his hands into the slightly damp patchwork. That was…great. He had only confessed his feelings, what, a day ago and he was already  that  clingy boyfriend. Lover? Friend with benefits? He didn’t really know.

        It was just too hard to shake the paranoia that if he were to turn his back for even a second Henry would be gone. What would Victor do if he lost him? Like actually, truly lost him?

        He had brought someone back before…

        Nope, Victor shook his head to clear it, good people don’t think about raising their lovers from the grave. Just focus on the nice day and wait for Henry to get back from exchanging secrets Victor wasn’t trusted to know with his brother who hated him for reasons he could never fully work out and-

        Victor stood. He needed to do something. His head was running all over the place (even more so than usual) and he needed something to focus on. Something besides, like, death and doom and jealousy.

        And sex. Because,  apparently , he couldn’t even masturbate in his own home.

        It seemed like hours later that Henry came back, though, judging by the sun, it was probably more like an hour. He knelt on the grass next to him and peered over his shoulder.

        “Is that...poetry?” Victor didn’t look up, but could still plainly hear the surprise in Henry’s voice. “Okay. Who are you and what have you done with Victor?”

        “Har, har.” Victor muttered. He curled farther in on the book, trying to conceal the cover.

        “No, seriously.” Henry laughed and leaned over him. “What are you reading?”

        Victor sighed and unfolded a bit. “I stole one of your Walt Whitman books.”

        Henry scanned the page over his shoulder. “Huh. You’ve never seemed interested in it before.”

         “Well, you know, you like it, so. And I’ve never actually read any of these, only listened to you read them.” Victor set the book aside and aimed the most pathetic look he could muster at his companion. “Also, I’m literally so bored, Henry. My brain feels like it’s melting out my ears.”

        “Hm.” Henry scooped the book up and set it to one side “I think you’ll live.”

        “Well. Maybe. But I won’t enjoy it.”

        Henry snorted. He adjusted on the grass, allowing Victor to drape himself across his form. When Victor breathed in, all he could smell was book rot and Henry’s vanilla body soap. He relaxed into the weight of the other, letting his curves melt beneath him. Resting against Henry was soft and warm and familiar, like sleeping in a childhood bedroom years after leaving home. Even in the slightly brisk air, Victor could feel his core begin to thaw.

        “We need to go back to the apartment so I can properly fuck you.” Victor muttered into Henry’s chest.

        Henry patted his head, perhaps a bit mockingly. “You just need to remember to lock your door next time.”

        “No, he senses it. He knows.” Victor rolled back to look at Henry. “I do anything and the chasity alarm in his study starts ringing.”

        Henry frowned at him unsurely, as if he were trying to deduce whether Victor was actually telling the truth or exaggerating. The issue was, Victor didn’t even know himself. It did seem like the kind of thing Alphonse Frankenstein would own.

        They laid together for a moment, enjoying the brief reprise from stress and solitude. Brief being the optimal word as, given more than three minutes of peace, Victor’s mind had taken off again.

        He desperately wanted to ask what was wrong with Ernest. Even if it was something small and insignificant, he didn’t like the idea of his brother’s life affecting Jascha. Or Clerval, for that matter, his too-kind friend who would bend over backwards to help those in need. Didn’t Ernest see that Clerval was already stretched thin? Though that was mostly Victor’s fault and maybe this was Clerval’s way of trying to avoid him and-

        Victor squirmed out of Henry’s hold.

        “Is everything, okay?” He asked.

        “Yeah, uh, sorry. My brain’s going a mile per minute. I think I’m going to go read some more.” Victor picked up the book and tucked it beneath his armpit. “See you at dinner, okay?”

        Henry nodded slowly. “Okay.”

        Victor smiled and walked back towards the house. He paused. “Don’t worry,” he yelled back to Henry, “I swear I’m not-” He waved a vague hand to indicate everything from ‘going off the rails’ to ‘mad at you.’

        Henry appeared to understand and nodded again. “Let me know if you need anything.”

        “I will.” Victor shut the door softly.

 

* * *

 

        Jascha stirred in his sleep as he felt the covers move. He reached for Ernest, and found his spot empty and warm. He looked at the clock. 5:30AM. He rolled over and saw that the light was on in the bathroom. He fell asleep for what felt like half an hour, but woke up again when he heard Ernest trip over something and curse.

        “Ernest?” He said blearily, sitting up.

        “Hey,” Ernest said softly. “I, uh, tripped on my phone. I forgot I left it on the floor last night.” He sat on the edge of Jascha’s side of the bed, tying on his sneakers.

        “Where are you going? It’s like, dark out…” Jascha rubbed his eyes.

        “Work outs, man. I’ve got one more week of them before semi-finals, and hopefully nationals.” Ernest finished pulling on his shoes. “Do you want to come?”

        “With the team?” Jascha felt some of his senses return.

        “Nah, today is just me.” Ernest smiled. Compared to Jascha, he seemed alarmingly awake.

        “Like, running?” Jascha asked sleepily.

        “Running. I also have to do some weird stretches and resistance training for my knee at the gym. Sprints, maybe.” Ernest poked Jascha in the stomach, causing him to flinch. “You can’t tell me you don’t work out, dude.”

        Jascha blinked at him. He didn’t know how to explain to him that he had never tried exercise in this body. “I don’t like...run, and stuff.”

        “I can teach you.” Ernest smirked. “Unless you need your beauty sleep.”

        Jascha deliberated. “Will there be other people?”

        “Not really. I work out ridiculously early to avoid other people.”

        “Okay. I guess I’ll come.” Jascha dragged himself out from under the covers.

        “Cool!” Ernest smiled. “I’ll stretch a little while you get ready.”

 

        Ernest meant it when he said running. They walked out to the track, which was about half a mile from the frat. It felt nice- really, really nice- to actually go outdoors. Ernest looked ridiculous to Jascha: He had a bright orange, meshy athletic shirt on under his University of Chicago varsity jacket. He wore black shorts, and once they made it to the track he put what appeared to be a custom-designed knee brace on. In the faint morning daylight, Jascha could see the deep scars on the back and side of his right knee from the surgeries. The brace covered most of them up.

        “Okay, I’m good to go. What’s your usual pace?” Ernest looked up at Jascha.

        “Uh...Normal?” Jascha shrugged.

        “So, like, seven minutes per mile? Eight, maybe?” Ernest cocked his head.

        “S-sure?” Jascha tied his hair up in a sloppy bun. Ernest looked at him suspiciously.

        “Let’s start with eight.” Ernest pulled a stopwatch from his jacket pocket. On his command, they started running.

        Jascha felt okay for the first lap, and the second. The third and fourth were torture. The track was a quarter mile, so they had to do all four laps before Ernest let him stop. It felt strange. His legs weren’t at all tired, nor was his heart rate obscenely high, but his lungs ached. It was like half of his body understood what was happening, but the other half couldn’t keep up.

        “My dude, are you okay?” Ernest placed a hand on Jascha’s shoulder as he caught his breath. “It was just a mile.”

        Jascha tried not to look like he was panicking. He wasn’t actually sure if his lungs were strong enough to handle exertion, or even his heart. He’d assumed it was safe only because everything else seemed normal. “Y-yeah,” He said between breaths. “It’s, uh...Asthma?”

        “Do you, like, need to take something?” Ernest rubbed his back, concern creeping into his voice. “Like, an inhaler?”

        Jascha finally got a good breath. Now that he knew he could breath, he was breathing normally. “No, I’m okay. It just passes.”

        “Okay…” Ernest’s voice was doubtful. “Can you keep going? I usually do one more, then some sprints. I won’t make you do those with me, if you’re not down for that today.”

        Jascha nodded. “I can run another mile, I think. It’s just been a while.”

        Ernest smiled. “Cool, cool. I’ll make you time my sprints. Wanna try a seven and a half minute pace?”

        Jascha joined him at the starting line. “Sure.”

 

        They ran for another few minutes, and then Jascha mostly sat around and guarded Ernest’s stuff as he ran his sprints. Jascha was instructed to keep track of his 600 meter 5K paces, which he did eight of, ignoring his 200 meter jogs in between. He also timed the 200 meter mile paces. There were four of those. He had no idea what the numbers meant, but he wrote them down in Ernest’s workout notebook all the same. At the end of it, Ernest had him run a cool-down mile with him. Ernest looked great, but Jascha felt like death by the end of it.

        “Do you wanna head to the gym now?” Ernest asked. He beamed despite being sweaty and out of breath.

        “Gym?” Jascha had only just managed to have enough air for talking.

        “Yeah, I need to do my physical therapy exercises.” Ernest pointed at his knee. “If I run without doing them, sometimes I, like, can’t walk for a few days.”

        “No, yeah. Definitely.” Jascha’s chest was heaving, but he didn’t want to mess up Ernest’s routine. “Gym. Let’s go.” He stood up.  

        Ernest picked up his bag and headed up the stairs towards the athletic center. It was about 6:45 at this point, so there weren’t many people out. Jascha looked around. How long had it been since he left the frat for longer than five minutes? Never? Now that he had his breath back, he felt great. He never wanted to go back.

        Ernest tried the gym doors, and found they were locked. He waved down the person inside, who smiled at him and let them both in.

        “Thanks, Liam,” Ernest said as the two high-fived. “Liam, this is Jascha. Jascha, Liam.” Jascha waved awkwardly. Ernest smiled warmly at Liam. “Liam’s a first year on the soccer team. And he’s going to run for secretary next semester once Carson graduates, right?” He looked pointedly at the kid.

        “Uh, yeah, sure!” He smiled weakly. Ernest patted him affectionately on the shoulder. He turned back to Jascha.

        “He also lets me in before hours so I can do my weird exercises alone. He’s a champ.” Ernest walked inside, and Jascha followed close behind him. Liam went back to setting up the athletic center after letting them into the weight room. Jascha had no idea what any of it was, save for the two treadmills. There were free weights of varying sizes all along the edges of the room, and the walls were entirely mirrors. There were other things, too, like resistance bands and pulley weights. All in all, this was the worst room Jascha had seen since the lab, since there was no way for him not to look at himself in a mirror.

        “You can, like, do whatever. I have to use the bands and stuff.” Ernest grabbed one of the bands and set it up along a beam. Jascha looked at the weights, and followed him over to where he was stretching.

        “I, uh, haven’t done this stuff since the accident. I don’t really remember what I used to do, if that makes sense?” A wave of embarrassment washed over him, and he could feel himself turn pink.

        “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think of that,” Ernest got up. “Uh, okay. So, like, upper body, or legs?”

        Jascha stared at him blankly. “...Upper body?”

        “Kk, so like, you can do sit ups on that like, chair thing over there. There’s also the weight ball, so you can do twists with that.” He walked over to a little cabinet. “Here, this book has a lot of basic exercises you can do. Just, like, make sure you do sets of muscles. Like, if you do your biceps, make sure to also do your triceps, you know?” He handed the book to Jascha.

        “Yup. Okay. Yeah, I got it.”

 

        They spent maybe an hour and a half at the gym. Ernest did his exercises, and Jascha attempted his own. At the end, they stretched together and started walking back to the frat. The streets were busier now, and the campus was starting to come to life as people headed to the dining hall or to their early morning classes. They were back at the frat by 8:45.

        “Do you have classes this morning?” Jascha asked as they both made breakfast. They entered the kitchen just as Brendon and another guy were cleaning up.

        “I have physiology at 11. Then lab at 1:00. I’ll probably head to the library after lab, since I have a psych test next week.” Ernest took a gallon of milk out of the fridge with ‘Ernest’s: Don’t touch!’ written in red sharpie on it. He drank straight from the carton. “Why?”

        Jascha looked to make sure Brendon and the other guy were gone. “Can I come with you? To the library?” Even though they were alone he was afraid to speak above a whisper.

        “Yeah, man.” Ernest smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”

        Jascha smiled too. He felt unbelievably happy to have a reason to leave the frat. “What time? Also, where’s the library?”

        “I get out at 4:00. And the library is, like, kinda far.” Ernest spoke between mouthfuls of cereal. “Once we shower I can just, like, walk you over and you can stay there, if you want. They’ve got books and stuff. I’ll come bring you food at lunch.”

        Jascha tried not to look too excited. He picked at his own bowl of cereal. “Yeah, that’d be awesome.”

        “Do you, like, have a phone? Can I text you so I know where you are?” Ernest looked confused. “How do I not already have your number?”

        “Oh, no. I don’t have a phone.” Jascha said.

        “How do you talk to people?” Ernest’s brow furrowed.

        “I, uh. Don’t.” Jascha said sheepishly.

        “You’re, like, really fucking weird.” Ernest said, shaking his head. “I’ll buy you a phone tomorrow if you want.”

        “What?” Jascha stopped eating and looked at him. “No way. I can’t let you do that.”

        “It’s my dad’s card. He’s loaded, and I never use it for anything.” Ernest shrugged. “He wouldn’t mine, since it’s for a friend.” Ernest put his dishes in the sink. “I’m gonna go shower.”

        “Okay,” Jascha said, still trying to figure out whether or not Ernest was serious about the phone. He finished eating and headed upstairs to his room.

        He sat on his bed, and he felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. He fell back on the pillow, sprawling out his arms. He closed his eyes and let himself drift off into a light sleep, thinking about the library and all the cool stuff he could read about while Ernest was in class. He could probably also use a computer there, not that he had an email or anything he needed to check. Or he could borrow a CD player and listen to music. He desperately wanted to listen to music. For some reason he’d get little shreds of it stuck in his head for hours on end, attached to names he only vaguely remembered like Tchaikovsky, or Vitali. He’d look them up.

        “Jascha?” He woke up to find Ernest sitting beside him on the bed, towel over his head like last night. He shook his shoulder lightly. “My dude, are you awake?”

        “I fell asleep?” He looked up at Ernest. “How long were you in the shower?”

        “Like, half an hour. Not that long.” Ernest smiled. “Are you, like, okay? The workout shouldn’t have been  that  hard.”

        Jascha shook his head slowly. “Workout was fine. Mornings are hard.” He felt Ernest push a stray lock of hair out of his face.

        “Is the door locked?” Ernest asked softly.

        “I always lock it, why?” Jascha sat up.

        “Nothing.” Ernest blushed. “I just wanted to, like. Kiss you.”

        “I’m nasty,” Jascha said. “I haven’t showered.”

        Ernest leaned over and kissed Jascha hesitantly. Jascha put a hand on Ernest’s shoulder, making it deeper. When they pulled away, Ernest smiled, though something in it seemed sad. “You are pretty nasty.” They two jumped as Ernest’s phone went off. Ernest reached for it and the smile dissolved. “It’s Henry. I, uh, need to take this. Go shower.”

        Jascha got up but stopped in the bathroom door. He didn’t want to be too far. Every time Henry called, it was either because Ernest was panicking or something bad happened. He needed to know which it was, and at least from here he could hear better.

        “Hey, Henry,” Ernest said. He looked over his shoulder at Jascha and gestured for him to leave, but Jascha shook his head. Jascha creeped back to the bed as Ernest looked away, close enough that he could hear Henry. When Ernest didn’t shove him away, he got back on the bed.

        “How are you doing?” Henry asked.

        “I’m, like, okay. Jascha is here.” Ernest lay down on the bed.

        “I talked to Victor about the, uh, text thing.” Henry said.

        “You talked to him? Did he agree to delete my number? Who am I kidding. Even if he said he would, he wouldn’t. He’d just lie about it.” Ernest’s voice was harsh.

        “He agreed not to text you until you say he can,” Henry said. “Please don’t be mad at Elizabeth or Justine.”

        “I’m not, really. He probably bullied them into it.” Ernest bit the inside of his cheek.

        “Do you want to talk more? Like, about the other...stuff?” Henry asked. Ernest tensed and looked at Jascha.

        “Uh, yeah. Give me a sec,” He covered the phone’s mic. He turned to Jascha. “Can you, like, go? I’m fine.”

        Jascha nodded and went into the bathroom. He knew that Ernest would listen for the shower, so he resigned himself to not listening in. He showered quickly, washing out the conditioner for his hair sooner than he normally did. He got out, and kicked himself for not remembering to bring his clean clothes in with him. He dried off, and headed back into his room with the towel around his waist. He entered as quietly as he could.

        “...it’s fine. We’re friends, and it’s like, normal. No! God! It’s like--it’s not, like, I’m  _ that _  gay…Fuck, he’s back,” Ernest sat up quickly. “Hold on, I’m gonna move to my room.” He got up and hurried past Jascha, through the bathroom and back to his own room.

        Jascha sighed, and felt the bitterness from two days ago inch back into his head. He pulled on a long-sleeved shirt and a jacket one of the guys gave him. He put on jeans instead of his usual sweatpants, and pulled on his socks. He lay on the bed and thought about trying to hear more of the conversation. He decided against it. He knew he didn’t really want to know. He closed his eyes. He thought about Ernest. What if he really wasn’t “that” gay? Jascha didn’t feel nearly as upset about the whole thing as he did. Maybe, from before...He couldn’t go there. If he had been gay before he died, that might mean there was someone he left behind. Hell, if he wasn’t gay there might still be someone. He felt the old nausea creep up on him. He had no idea, and he didn’t want to know. And that was normal, right? He felt the piercing sharpness of panic rising in his stomach, and he swallowed hard. He couldn’t do that now. Not while Ernest was next door, on the phone with Henry. The two people he knew, and the two people who might freak out or leave him if he lost it.

        Ernest came back after another twenty minutes. Jascha’s bathroom door was open, so he just walked in. Jascha forced himself to sit up and look like he was reading a magazine when he came in.

        “Okay, ready to go? I have class in, like, half an hour, but if we leave now I can bring you to the library.” Ernest pulled his shoes on. “Sorry that phone call took so long.”

        “It’s okay,” Jascha said, putting on his sneakers.

        “Oh, I’m gonna be late coming home tonight. I’m gonna meet up with Henry at the campus center for a little while after dinner.” Ernest hefted his backpack onto his shoulders.

        “Cool, sounds good.” Jascha stood up, and dried his hair one more time with the towel.

        “You good?” Ernest asked.

        “Yup,” Jascha said. He couldn’t look at him, so he folded the towel and placed it on the bed. “Let’s go.”

 


	18. Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry goes to school. Victor keeps reading poetry. Jascha listens to music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Sorry this update is a tad later than usual. Life and all that jazz. As always, we adore hearing from you! 
> 
> Trigger warnings for: conversations about institutionalization

        The sun cast colored shadows through the red and orange leaves. Victor had left the book propped open on the roots of the tree.  Leaves of Grass . It hardly seemed like his cup of tea; far too visceral and emotional for Victor. Henry settled himself in the roots and took advantage of the sunlight to read.

        Technically speaking, he had an agenda. Three more poems analyzed and written about by the end of the month. It really wasn’t that high of a mark, considering all of the work he had done before, but these past few days of chaos had really thrown him off his thesis schedule. Speaking of which, he should probably tell his professors that he wasn’t dead. That would probably be a good thing to mention, huh? His advisor did know, though, so really that’s all that counted. He flipped absentmindedly through the pages. “ _ Song of Myself: 1855 Edition _ .” It wasn’t strictly the edition he was supposed to be working with, but it was the better one in his not-so-humble opinion. Truly, the best parts had been omitted.

_         The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,   _

_         The sickness of one of my folks -- or of myself . . . . or _

_         ill-doing . . . . or loss or lack of money . . . . or depressions or exaltations, _

_         They come to me days and nights and go from me again, _

_         But they are not the Me myself. _

        That hit a little closer to home than he had been anticipating, but that was poetry, right? Right. Henry closed the book, but kept his thumb on the page. But they were him. There was simply no getting around it. Eventually he was going to have another breakdown and Victor was too. It was an ever present cloud in their skies. And it was only going to get harder. Even though this time they didn’t progress to the nightmare scenario (maybe), it still felt worse than it did last time. And it certainly didn’t help that they had their breakdowns at the same time and no one was left to play the role of solid caretaker. What were they supposed to do when they lived by themselves?

        Henry shook the thought away from his head. Had he picked that up from Victor? Probably. It was very endearing. It was nice out and he should be reading happy poetry written by a man he loved.

        _He kept reading. Thoughts fluttered in and out of his head like moths, but none of them stuck around long enough for him to actually think about it._

_         The beards of the young men glistened with wet, it ran from their long hair,   _

_         Little streams passed all over their bodies.   _

_         An unseen hand also passed over their bodies,   _

_         It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs. _

_         The young men float on their backs, their white bellies swell to the sun . . . . they do not ask who seizes fast to them,   _

_         They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch,   _

_         They do not think whom they souse with spray. _

        That was a thought that wouldn’t leave him alone. How embarrassing would it be to admit to Victor that his sexual awakening came in their high school English class? Well, technically it came after their class. They weren’t allowed to read it aloud because it would have been impure.  He had asked Victor to read it with him, but that was before he knew. Now, he was almost glad Victor had declined because that would have been a very awkward situation to explain to his childhood friend. Come to think of it, it’s what Whitman would have wanted.

        The sun was beginning to sink lower in the sky. It wasn’t quite evening yet, but the Frankensteins ate early. All the better for him, he checked his watch, or, he tried to check his watch. He had a meeting after hours with his advisor and a...meeting with Ernest after that. He was a little surprised, if he was being honest, he didn’t think Ernest stayed up that late unless it was a Friday. Was it a Friday? He really didn’t know. Without classes all the thought of time kinda vanished to oblivion. He flipped open his phone. He was losing it.  

        He picked up the book and walked inside. There, Victor sat with his legs slung over the arm on the couch. His hair fell over the leather and shone in the afternoon sun.

        “Hey,” Henry said as he sat next to Victor. He poked his head up from the book he was reading. “Do you know what your dad is making for dinner?”

        “Not really, but it smells good.” Victor returned to his book and hummed as Henry stroked his hair.

        “It’s been nice getting to eat food that we didn’t make ourselves,” Henry laughed. Despite there being four somewhat functioning adults living in their apartment, none of them could cook. Victor made a noise of agreement and closed his eyes. He looked so peaceful. Henry maneuvered himself so Victor could lay his head on his lap. His forehead was warm to Henry’s touch, but that was probably because his hands were cool.

        “I’m going out later. Do you want me to grab you anything?” Victor lay his book open across his chest.

        “You’re going out?” he asked.

        “Yeah, I have a meeting with my thesis advisor then I’m going to talk to Ernest,” Henry continued to card his hands through Victor’s hair.

        “Ernest?” he asked with the scrunch of his nose. They sat in silence for a second before Henry booped him on the nose. “What was that?” Victor said, crosseyed and flustered.

        “I don’t know, you just looked cute.” Henry took a glance at the book and when it was more poetry, he decided to say nothing. “And yeah, Ernest.”

        “What is his deal?” Victor huffed, “I finally get to spend some time with you and he steals you away.”

        “That, my sweet, is still classified,” Henry kicked his feet up on the ottoman. “I promise it’s nothing I can’t handle, though.” Victor huffed and turned his head away. “You’re a smart man. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

        “What good does that do me?” he asked.

        “Not much. But if what you really want is to know and not...something else, then curiosity sated, right?” Victor continued to grumble in his lap. Henry knew Victor well, it wasn’t just knowledge he was after.

        “It just seems like-” Victor stopped himself.

        “What?”

        “It’s nothing,” Victor turned himself fully on his side and nuzzled into Henry’s knee.

        “You know, it’s better to just say. No use in keeping those types of emotions bottled up,” He rubbed Victor’s shoulder and sighed.

        “I’m scared you’re avoiding me,” Victor covered his face with his hands. Sometimes Henry forgot exactly how difficult emotions were for him.

        “I’m really not. I promise,” Henry pulled Victor into his arms. “Your brother just needs some help right now, and I really am the best person for it. I promise, I’m always going to come back to you,” he pressed a kiss to the back of Victor’s head. “Plus, I’ll only be away for an hour or two. I’ll be back before you’re even asleep. Is there anything else you’re worried about?” At first, Victor shook his head, but after a second he nodded. “Is that all you want to talk about now?”

        “Yeah,” Victor sounded exhausted.

        Dinner passed without much happening. William was doing well in school and had made some really great friends. He liked math and science and wanted more of Henry’s help on an English project, which he happily obliged. Alphonse didn’t speak much and Henry watched as his eyes moved from Henry to Victor and back to Henry. He seemed intensely fascinated with the food on his plate. The ride to campus was mostly quiet too, until Alphonse and Henry were about fifteen minutes away from the academic quad.

        “So,” Alphonse began, keeping his eyes on the road. “It seems like you and Victor have become rather intimate,” Henry very much did not like the path this was going.

        “I-” he struggled for the words that would make this end, but also weren't a lie. “Yes,”  

        “Well,” he straightened his shoulders. “It is perfectly natural for boys your age to want to...explore these types of things. For the sake of both you and my son, it’s important that you go about it safely. Now, I have not brought it upon myself to research the...intricacies of the intercourse you and Victor could be having-” Henry had to force himself to zone out. This was all just too much. On the one hand, he was 23 years old and did not need to be lectured on the importance of safe sex. On the other, it was sweet that Alphonse cared enough to make the effort.

        Henry was able to politely extract himself from the conversation when they arrived to the English building. It felt almost like coming home even though it had hardly been a week since he’d been gone. He chose to walk up the stairs, paying attention to how years of student wear and tear left a divot in the center of each step.

        He stood in front of his advisor’s door. Her name, Adelaide Miller, was engraved into bronze. There was no turning back now. He raised his hand and knocked on the door.

        “Who is it?” her enthusiastic singsong voice barely came through the oaken door.

        “It’s Henry,” he closed his eyes and took a breath. “Henry Clerval.”

        The door opened so fast it almost hit him in the face. Before he could truly absorb what was happening, Adelaide pulled him into a hug.

        “I have been so worried about you. The entire department has,” she said as she released him.

        “I know, I know,” Henry said as he hung his head, “I’m really behind on my thesis work and I’ve missed so many--”

        “No,” Adelaide said as she ushered him into her office. “I’ve been worried about  you . People have been further behind in class and their thesis because of a cold. What happened?”

        Henry could lie and tell her had just got really sick and hadn’t thought to email anyone. That also wouldn’t quite be a lie, but he looked into her worried eyes and knew he had to tell the truth.

        So he did.

        It was hard not to be in tears by the end even though the wounds were not as raw. Adelaide had seen him cry before. Multiple times. About everything and nothing. This, however, was different.

        “Henry,” she said, handing his a box of tissues. “You know I’m here to support you, right? Outside of your thesis too. You don’t have to deal with these types of things alone.”

        “I know it just--”

        Adelaide smiled and tilted her head. “You’ve been doing this type of thing since I met you in undergrad.” Henry was puzzled. As far as he could remember, he hadn’t had a freak out like this since high school. She took the silence as a cue to continue. “You’ll be able to deal with things, and help your friends, much better if you prioritize your own health and wellbeing.”

        “What? I don’t--”

        “You do.”

        “I do,” Henry conceded. He hadn’t really realized, even though he supposed it might have been obvious to everyone else.

        “You’re empathetic,” she said. “It’s one of the many, many things I love about you and what makes you a great English student. But you need to learn when there’s not much left you can do.” She cocked her head and laughed. “Fitting, right? That your greatest strength would be your greatest flaw, but that’s literature for you. It imitates life and all that.” Henry said nothing and pretended to be deeply engrossed in the state of his fingernails.

        Adelaide smiled sadly. “This is stressing you out. Do you want to talk poetry instead?”

        “Yes please,” Henry gave an awkward half smile and pulled his book out of his bag. They talked until it was just about time for him to meet up with Ernest.

        “I’m glad you’re back, Henry,” Adelaide said as he turned to leave. “Give me a call if you need anything.”

        Henry walked to the campus center alone in the dark. He felt exhausted and completely on autopilot even though he wasn’t exactly sure why. Deep down, he knew everything Adelaide told him was true, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it. Without his empathy, what was he? Worthless.

        He hadn’t spent much time in the student center since he was in undergrad and they had completely revamped it. It sucked. All of the decor was so extra and abstract and  red . Why on earth had they decided that was a good aesthetic choice? The couches were all weird and didn’t make sense if you had a group larger than two. He threw his bag into a private study room which had an entire wall made of windows so it kind defeated the “private” part. At least it was a place where he and Ernest could talk without the fear of anyone else overhearing.

        He wandered into the cafe and bought himself a chocolate chip cookie and a peppermint mocha. He hadn’t tasted something so sweet since he’d been in the Frankenstein house. He settled back into the study room and took out his journal. It had been a while since he wrote anything, but a lot of stuff had happened recently and who knows? Maybe it’ll help him process a little better.

 

* * *

 

         Victor tried to get through another section of poems, but eventually realized he was zoning out too much to shuffle the swimming letters into order and was forced to stop. That left him with just about nothing to do besides mope and sit with William while the other alternated between doing his homework and sneaking glances at Victor.

        Victor frowned and raised an eyebrow after the third time he caught William in the act. “Do I have something on my face?”

        “No…” William continued working in silence. Victor craned his neck to peer over at the paper. Singleton Copley and the American Revolution. Fascinating. He debated heading off and seeing if he could do some laundry or perhaps find an astronomy book in his father’s study that he hadn’t already managed to plow through yet, but another glance from William rooted him to the chair.

        “Okay, seriously, what?” Victor asked flatly.

        “I didn’t do anything!”

        “You keep looking at me.”

        William stared at him openly now and Victor held his gaze intently. It took about three minutes, but William broke first. “I was just looking. You look different. That’s all.”

        Victor drew back, confused. “Different?” It surely hadn’t been that long since he’d seen William? Last Christmas, right? No way he’d changed that much in a year.

        “Different from the pictures. Around the house.” William clarified before shrugging awkwardly and returning to his work.

        “I-” Victor tried to think on what pictures William might be referring to, but came up blank. It had been...awhile since he was at home for an extended period. Even this two day stint seemed to drag on compared to his half day visits of old. Maybe his dad hadn’t swapped any of the photos out since his college graduation and that’s what  William  was talking about. He tried not to let it rub him the wrong way.

        William finished his homework by eight (smart kid) and vacated the kitchen table quickly to go play video games or call his friends or whatever, leaving Victor without anything to focus on. A quick check of the clock informed him that Henry wasn’t due back for another hour at least, which left Victor plenty of time to worry and overthink his life, failure, and many flaws, so instead he decided to go looking for the photos William had mentioned.

        There were, of course, an abundance to be pursued. His mother had a knack for photography when Victor was growing up and that talent had been passed on Elizabeth, who took up the mantle with gusto. It seemed that every nook and cranny of the house contained some childhood snapshot or awkward Christmas photo mashup. It was a nice but weird trip down memory lane. He’d almost forgotten about Henry’s awful multi colored braces. And then there was Elizabeth’s constant bedhead, scattered across every picture from age four to fourteen. God, they’d all been kinda ugly kids. Even Ernest, who seemed the most concerned with his appearance, had gone through a terrible period of only wanting to wear the same, overlarge gym shorts.

        Following the trail of photographs, Victor wandered into his father’s study, taking in the arch of six shots displayed prominently on the bookshelf behind his father’s chair. Elizabeth at her graduation, smile huge and blue eyes bright against the main campus sign. Then William, standing with the middle school spelling bee trophy in his arms. Ernest, kneeling on the soccer pitch, and grinning ear to ear at the camera man. Henry holding a book and sitting beneath a tree, barely even looking at the camera (the nerd). And, of course, the photo of their mom on vacation in Liechtenstein, her dark hair pulled away from her face in a bright red scarf and the glint in her eyes mischievous and warm. Victor let his own eyes linger on her for a moment before confronting his photo to the far side.

        It was him at the airport, preparing to leave for study abroad in Ingolstadt. In the photograph, he looked young and bright, with the same kind of sharp eyes and smile as his mother, one hand on his suitcase, the other on his hip like some kind of skinny, shitty adventurer.

        “That one was always one of my favorites.”

        Victor startled as his father materialized into the air beside him. “Fuck, Dad!” Victor clutched his frantically beating heart. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

        “Language.” His father replied, though he was smiling. He glanced back to the shelf. “You looked very pleased with yourself for getting into that program.”

        “I was.” Victor said cautiously. He stepped back from the shelf and stood by the desk’s far side as his father settled himself in his broad backed leather chair.

        “You should be. It was a very prestigious program. I mean, it’s not every day that an undergrad student gets accepted to be a research assistant in a graduate level cellular regeneration lab. Your mother would have been so proud of you.”

        Victor said nothing in reply, just observed the way his father’s breath deepened and the sudden sadness which seemed to overtake his frame. He hesitated. “Hey, dad?”

        “Yes?”

        “Why are there no recent photos of me?”

        His father frowned. “What do you mean, Victor?” There was a tightness in his voice, but that might have been Victor’s imagination. He pushed forward.

        “I just mean, it doesn't look like there’s any pictures of me after freshman year of college is all.” Victor watched his father carefully.

        “Well.” His dad pulled a stack of his work closer to him and began to sort through it. “You would have to actually come home so I could take pictures of you.”

        Ouch. That was...a fair, but low blow. Not outside what Victor had figured, but still. “That still doesn’t explain-”

        “Have you given more thought to your situation?” His father interrupted him suddenly.

        “I…” Victor cast an uncertain look to the door. Were they doing this now? Didn’t his dad have to go pick up Henry soon? “I mean, yeah. It’s pretty much all I’ve been thinking about.”

        “And what are your thoughts?”

        Well that was new. His father usually didn’t ask for opinions in this type of situation.

        “Obviously, I would rather not be institutionalized.” Victor offered. This was new territory and, honestly, as much as he hated the three rule system they had worked out, this might be worse.

        “Why?”

        “Why? I-” Victor stuttered. “Because it was terrifying. And stressful for everyone and I hated being alone all the time and-”

        “No.” His father interrupted. “Why do you think it’s not necessary this time?”

        Oh. Okay, yeah, Victor had thought through this before. He had his arguments, points. He tried to stand straighter, but, even sitting down, his father appeared to tower. “I think given that I’ve been recovering well at home and that the root cause of the issue has been...resolved between Henry and I, there’s really not a need for it.”

        “And when this happens again?”

        Victor faltered. For the first time since he had brought up the hospital, his father meet Victor’s eyes directly, and it took everything in him not to break that gaze.

        “It won’t.” Victor sounded unconvincing to his own ears.

        “Yes. It will. And I don’t think you’re ready to deal with it again in your current state.”

        “Well, I-”

        “What if you lose Henry? Or Elizabeth?” His father stood, growing even taller, and rounded the desk. “What if you lose me? Will you be prepared for that?”

        It was impossible to measure the severity in his father's voice as anything but threatening, even if Victor’s rational mind knew that such a thing would be impossible coming from his loving if strict parental figure. He took a stumbling step back then another as his father appeared to loom. “Victor. I am immensely glad that you and Henry have resolved your disagreement and I am beyond overjoyed at your growing relationship. But if a simple misstep was enough to reap such damage…”

        “It wasn’t!” Victor had fucked up somewhere in the course of this conversation and he couldn’t figure out where, but it was going off the rails and he had no idea how to reel things back.

        “It seems like it was.” His father, thankfully, stopped advancing. With some effort, Vicor could pick out the genuine distress on his father’s face. “I’m not happy about this either, Victor, but-”

        “Well obviously you are!” A sudden, icy rush of fear came leaking out and Victor found himself yelling without realization. “Otherwise you wouldn't be considering it! Otherwise, you wouldn’t make me do this to Henry!” He froze. Shit. Shit.

        He’d gone and thrown himself in the deep end now.

        His father's mask was one of sympathy, but underneath, Victor could see the steely acceptance. He’d walked right into his hands.

        “We can- you can get me a therapist. Like Henry suggested.” He rushed desperately. “I’ll go. Every day if I have to. I- I’ll live at home. I’ll take the semester off-”

        “Victor.”

        “-medical leave. It’s believable, I’ve looked like absolute shit all semester-”

        “Victor.”

        He forced himself to stop blabbering as his father surveyed him. He looked tired. Deeply, deeply tired. “I have to go pick Henry up in a minute. When I get back, we can talk about this more, but...know that my mind is almost certainly made up.”

        His dad stood. Brushed invisible dust from his sweater. Began towards the door. Victor desperately wanted to stop him, but what could he even say?

        Just before his father closed the door, he paused. “You wanted to know why there are no pictures of you after freshman year? Because that’s the last time you looked like my son.” When his father looked back, Victor could see tears beginning to form in his eyes. “I would like to see him again. One day. But with how things are now, I doubt I ever will.”

        And Victor was alone again.

 

* * *

 

         It was easy for Jascha to find a place to hide in the library. He was dropped off by Ernest around 10:45 AM, so the library was mostly empty. He wandered around a bit until he found the music section, where he grabbed a pile of scores, a CD player, and about five CDs of composers he only sort of remembered. He then disappeared into a private study room, only coming out at the agreed upon times to meet Ernest in the lobby.

        There were little windows in the study room’s door, but other than that he was effectively alone. He put on the headphones, cranked the volume up to kill, and listened to the first recording. It was Jacqueline Du Pre, performing the Elgar Cello Concerto in E minor. When the first chord was played, Jascha found himself tearing up. Within a minute, he was sobbing. He remembered someone he cared about playing this for him in a car. He couldn’t recall their face, or anything other than the piece, but he remembered the car, and that it was nighttime. It may have been this same recording. He recalled that this particular musician meant something to him.

        He looked at the various scores. Despite himself, he knew how they were supposed to sound. He caught himself tapping out the parts for first violin with his left hand, and he was frustrated by the stiffness and clumsiness of his hands. Whatever he was before, this had been something he loved. He could feel it in his chest. Whatever language was written on the pages before him, he knew what every piece of it meant. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew that if asked to perform any of it he would know how, even if his fingers didn’t seem to understand.

        He was late meeting Ernest for lunch, because he’d needed to finish the movement of Swan Lake he was listening to before he could pull himself away. He’d run down the stairs, taken the food from Ernest, and pretty much ran back up the stairs without saying anything. Whatever hurt he felt by Ernest earlier was replaced by the visceral need to keep listening to and reading music. So he did. He burned through Swan Lake, moved onto the Bach sonatas, got bored of the cello and ran back downstairs to swap out his finished CDs for more. The librarian running the music wing was more than happy to show him the violin section of their collection.

        “Are you looking for a particular piece or musician?” She asked.

        “N-no, I don’t think so. Just violin,” He said absently, scanning the shelves for something he recognized. This was useless, since he felt like he recognized all of it. His eye was caught, however, by one of their displays. On it were a few CDs under a sign that read ‘Staff Picks.’ There were classics; Yo-Yo Ma, more Jacqueline Du Pre, Itzhak Perlman. But there was another, with a modern, glossy cover that read ‘ Tomaso Antonio Vitali - Chaconne in G minor for violin and organ. Performed by Jascha Simonis and.. .’ Jascha stopped reading and looked at his own name, completely stunned. The librarian caught him staring at it.

        “Would you like to hear that one? It’s quite a lovely performance.” She smiled sadly at the cover. “It makes me sad, though. To hear now.”

        “Why? Why does it make you sad?” Jascha asked quickly.

        “It’s the soloist, he--” She started.

        “Okay, I’ll take it.” Jascha interrupted quickly. “Uh, sorry to cut you off. I’ll have it back by tonight.” Jascha held the CD against his chest.

        “No worries!” She smiled. “I know you’ll love it. They also have some other pieces on there, but the Vitali is by far the star.”

        Jascha took it and the sheet music for the chaconne, leaving the room as quickly as possible. He ran back up to his study room, which looked like a complete nightmare at this point. Scores were sprawled out over the desks, and CDs were piled on the chairs he wasn’t using. He also had books detailing the histories of some of the composers. He took the Haydn he had been listening to out of the CD player and put in the new one. His hands were shaking so badly that he had trouble opening the sheet music. He hit play, and felt his heart pounding in his ears in the few seconds of opening silence. As the organ started, he thought he might die from a heart attack. When the violin came in he almost did.

        He was frozen in his seat, except for the fingers on his left hand, which played along with the violin as best they could. He knew the piece. He knew all the pieces he’d listened to, but this one was different. He knew the piece inside and out, and he remembered playing it. He felt an unbridled wave of joy and terror roll over him.

        “I was a violinist,” he whispered. “I was a violinist!” He yelled. No one was in the room with him to hear. He leaned back in his chair and covered his face with his hands, letting himself feel all the emotions that came with the piece; the fear, joy, pride; the complete and utter devotion. He caught his breath and took out the little booklet that was in the CD case. He opened it, and saw a picture of himself. He was smiling, and holding a strikingly dark violin, with little pale patches in the varnish from age and use.

        “Крошка,” He said under his breath, tracing the violin’s image with his fingers. He looked back at the picture of himself. He didn’t look that different; his hair was more or less the same color, just much longer and shinier. His eyes were the only drastic change. In this image they were hazel. He drew some comfort from that. At least he could still recognize his own face. If he got color contacts, he might feel even better.

        He listened to the piece several more times, practicing the fingerings along to it until even his stupid, untrained hands could get it (mostly) right. After finishing the sixth repeat, he headed back down stairs and returned all of his other CDs and scores.

        “Do you have more performances by this soloist?” He asked the librarian.

        “Oh, yes!” She smiled. “He was quite the prolific performer. We have his first major concert, the Sibelius Concerto in D minor; also the Shostakovich concerto. I believe we also have some trios and quartets with him. Oh, and we have a few sonatas…”

        “Can I borrow, like, all of them?” Jascha asked, tapping his foot nervously. “And uh, the sheet music for the concertos. I’m working on a project...”

        “You can only check out five CDs at a time, and three scores. Which would you like?” She collected the CDs as Jascha trailed behind her.

        “The two concertos. And two of the sonatas. And I still have the Vitali.” He said quickly. “And the scores for the concertos.”

        “No problem,” She said, handing him the CDs. She also dug up the sheet music. “You can check them out here, or you can use the main desk.”

        “I’ll use the main desk. I’m meeting a friend soon,” He glanced at the clock. It was four. “Like, now, actually. Thanks!”

        He left the room and stood in the lobby, arms full with the CDs and the music. He must look insane. He’d spent the better part of the day crying at this point, and he was sure his eyes were still at least a little puffy. He bounced in place slightly as he waited for Ernest. The second he saw him come in, he ran up to him.

        “I have a room on the third floor. Let’s go,” He said, turning on his heel.

        “O-Okay?” Ernest had to jog a few steps to keep up with him. “You good?”

        “Yup. Just busy.” He didn’t look back at Ernest. He was too focused on getting back to the CD player and his scores.

        They reached the room, and Jascha cleared off a chair for Ernest. He sat back in his, and got to changing out the CD in the CD player. After a minute, he looked up and saw that Ernest hadn’t sat down. He was standing in the doorway staring at the room, eyes wide with surprise.

        “What?” Jascha asked, headphones around his neck.

        “Nothing. Um, what...is all this?” Ernest asked, putting his backpack on the ground. “Are you, like, okay?” Ernest closed the door behind him.

        “Yup. Yeah. Totally cool.” Jascha nodded.

        “Okay…” Ernest started, but was cut off by Jascha putting on his headphones and blaring Sibelius.

        He knew this piece as well, though it didn’t strike him as intimately as the Vitali. He had more trouble remembering the concert. The picture in the booklet was him, though. He read the score and practiced the fingerings as he had the first one, and found that this piece was more difficult to recall. He assumed it was due to the time. He could tell that he had been a teenager when he played this one. He listened to it, and re-listened to it a couple times, completely focused on forcing his hands to remember the notes. He was torn from the piece by Ernest tapping his shoulder.

        “What?” Jascha asked. He hadn’t meant to sound sharp, but he assumed he did, judging by Ernest’s startled expression.

        “Dude, I know you said you were okay before, but…” Ernest gestured to the room. “This is looking a little, like, crazy.”

        “It’s normal,” Jascha said, forcing himself to speak slower. “I just wanted to read the scores.” He held the Sibelius up. “See?”

        “Okay, so like, I don’t really know what that is. Like, classical music?” Ernest cocked his head, and picked up the Vitali score. He leafed through it.

        “Yup. Classical. Ish. Some of it is from the baroque and romantic periods.” Ernest looked at him like he had two heads. “What?”

        “Is this, like, your thing? Are you a music major?” Ernest’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t think you were a student here.”

        “I’m not. I went to Juilliard.” Jascha startled himself. “I, uh...yeah. Juilliard.”

        “Is that, like, a college? I haven’t heard of it.” Ernest still looked lost.

        “Conservatory,” Where were these words coming from? “It’s a school for, like, musicians and dancers. Actors, too, but I never really hung out with them…”

        Ernest still looked confused, but he was distracted by the booklet from the Vitali case. He reached for it. “Hey, that’s your name!” He smiled. Jascha grabbed the booklet defensively.

        “No!” He said suddenly. Ernest looked worried. “You can’t look. I was, uh, really ugly then. I changed a lot.”

        “I don’t believe you. You’re probably just being a dick.” Ernest tried to take the book from him. “Lemme see.”

        “I’d rather not,” Jascha said, holding the booklet out of Ernest’s reach. Ernest stood up to go get it, but was interrupted by his phone ringing.

        “Oh shit, wait,” Ernest took his phone out and opened it. Jascha hid the booklet under a pile of papers. “Hey, dude…Yup, yeah we’re still on. I gotta grab some food, but I’ll meet you in, like, 45 minutes? Cool, cool. Bye,” Ernest hung up after a minute. “That was Henry. I gotta head out so I can eat. Are you coming?”

        Jascha shook his head. “I’ll eat back at the frat.” He remembered that he needed Ernest’s library card. “I’ll leave with you, though. Do you mind, uh, checking all this out for me at the desk?” He looked pleadingly at Ernest.

        “Only if you show me the picture when I get home.” Ernest smirked. Jascha nodded, and Ernest helped him carry the scores. “Let’s go.”

        Jascha finally looked at a clock. It was 6:30 PM. He’d been there for more than seven hours, but it was far from enough time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing Jascha says in Russian is крошка, or kroshka. It means crumb/baby.


	19. Unlike Father, Unlike Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry talks to Ernest. Victor looks at photos. Jascha deals with a panic attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thank you for sticking with us and for your constant comments! As always, let us know what you think. 
> 
> Trigger warnings in this section: Verbal and physical abuse, homophobic slurs, descriptions of panic attacks including vomiting, and internalized homophobia.

        Henry had gone through two full coffees and Ernest was nowhere to be found. He wouldn’t classify himself as a caffeine addict per se, but after a week like his, he needed it to stay upright. He watched and wrote as undergrads passed the study room and wondered if he ever looked so ragged and soulless. Occasionally someone would pop their head in to ask when the room would be free, but other than that it was minimal socialization.

        Henry hadn’t quite gotten used to the quiet. He imagined, if he focused hard enough he would have been able to hear the blood running through his veins. Then, he would have to think about how his heart contracted to pump his blood and the feel of it leaving his body. He wished he brought his IPod instead.

        He busied himself with focusing on the sound of his pen against paper. Each letter had a different tone, pitch, and rhythm; music to his otherwise restless mind.

I’m not quite sure where Victor and I go from here.  He wrote, occasionally pausing to tap his pen on his cheek.  What are we now? Friends? Friends with benefits? Lovers?  Henry tilted his head.  Lovers. I think that’s what I want. Someday we’ll have a house of our own and a  cat  dog. We’ll have degrees and jobs and rent to pay and it will be normal.

Normal. He didn’t think that word was in Victor’s vocabulary. Of course, nothing would ever be normal for them. Everything they did would be a struggle in one way or another. But, as long as they could keep moving forward, inch by inch, they could probably keep themselves afloat.

        Henry began tapping his pen on the table. How long had it been since he was alone and not in pain? Objectively, not that long, but it felt like ages. The silence sucked the atmosphere from the room and made it difficult to breathe.

        He drew a horizontal line in the center of the page. Once, he had liked to write poetry, but that was before he realized he could make a living analyzing other people’s poetry. He wrote a couple lines, but scratched them out. They were overwrought and cliche, even by his own extremely low standards. What the hell. If there was any place to write shitty love poetry about his boyfriend, it was in this book. So, he did.

         _He is a constellation brought to life_

_ Carved greek marble set among the stars _

_ His tongue is clad with silver _

_ His hair shines bright as a sparrow’s feather _

_ but when he bleeds _

_ and oh, how he bleeds _

_ His blood runs red as any other’s _

_ There are demons in this world, you see _

_ Who know it’s easy for me _

_ to mistake his smile for a sunrise _

_ Spectors who seek to destroy such light _

_ For who in the world is more beautiful than he? _

_ I’d bind his heart with mine _

_ to save his from the world’s spite _

_ I’d breathe life into his lungs as if they were my own _

_ because no monster is as fearsome _

_ As a world deprived of his grace _

_ No beast could be as brutal _

_ As a day without his heartbeat _

_ For he is love, laughter, and goodness untainted _

_ The dawn that rises radiantly _

_ Over every day and daunting night _

 

        He made himself finish the entire thing before he even thought about reading it over. It was strange writing without a thesis or an outline or anything like that. The last time he did, Victor had to retrieve it from the trash because he crumpled it up before he could read it. ‘Maybe if you didn’t compare yourself to Walt Whitman,’ he had said, ‘then you would see wonderful it actually is.’  Victor was sweet, but Victor was Victor and didn’t exactly know the first thing about poetry.

        He finally took a deep breath and read his writing. It really was sappy, that’s for sure. Maybe Victor would like it. Who knows? Henry was awoken from his contemplation by Ernest knocking on the window.

        “Oh, hey,” Henry said as he opened the door. “I was starting to get worried you wouldn’t show.”

        “Yeah, sorry about that, Jascha’s been holed up in the library all day,” Ernest took a moment to catch his breath. “Did you know he was into classical music?”

        “No?” Henry said and then remembered he had lied, “Well, I saw him at that concert once but I didn’t know he was  into it  into it.”

        “Yeah, apparently he plays the violin, or some shit like that. Like, he said he went to Juilliard. I don’t know. I haven’t heard of it,” Ernest placed his bag on the table and chose a chair opposite of Henry’s.

        “Jascha went to Juilliard?!” Henry almost yelled.

        “I don’t know man, I guess. Is that supposed to mean anything?” He narrowed his eyes in confusion.

        “It’s just the best music school basically anywhere,” Henry took a breath and composed himself. “I’m just super happy for him, that’s all.”

        “Yeah, he’s a good dude. Really deserves it,” Ernest tensed his shoulders and looked away.

        “You ready to talk?” Henry asked quietly.

        “Yeah, yeah. It’s just...hard, you know,” Ernest looked over his shoulders. “You’re sure no one can hear us in here?”

        “I’m pretty sure it’s all good. Some undergrads didn’t even react when I told them to stop gawking at me.” Henry tucked his legs under the arm of the chair.

        “Yeah, the windows are pretty weird.”

        “So what happened?” Henry asked. “What changed?”

        “Well, I...uhh...I guess me and Jascha. Umm, we kinda...you know,” Ernest tripped over his words, “We kissed. And I liked it. And we were going to do...more...but I freaked out. And then we talked and I felt a little better so we did...do more, I mean. And now, I guess...I’m scared, man.” Ernest tucked his chin against his chest, the emotional energy of what he had just said apparent.

        “Is it still the team or-”

        “The team. The frat. My dad. Everyone. They’re all going to find out and I’ll be done for,” Ernest clasped his hands together. “I just can’t be alone again, you know?”

        Henry took a deep breath and extended a comforting hand to Ernest, “Look. I can’t help much with your team or the frat. I’d say do some snooping and figure out what they really think before you say anything to them, but that’s the best I’ve got for you.”

        “I know. I know it’s just been the same problem this entire time.”

        “Hey, that’s okay. It’s a difficult problem,” Henry pat his arm. “I can help with your father, though.”

        “Really? My dad?” Ernest seemed shocked.

        “Uh, yeah. Really. Had you ever wondered why I spend  so much  time at your house when I was in high school ?” Henry smiled. Ernest was still a Frankenstein and sometimes Frankensteins could be a little clueless.

        “I just assumed you liked Victor,” For the first time in the conversation, Ernest met Henry’s eyes.

        “Well yeah, that too,” Henry laughed. “You know my dad, right?” he put on his best snotty, mocking tone. “Senator Lawrence Thibault Clerval the Third.”

        “That asshole is your father?”

        “I see his reputation precedes him.”

        “I...uhh… I mean,” Ernest stammered, “Not to be rude or anything-”

        “No, be rude. He deserves it,” Henry smiled and cocked his head. “Did you know, he fakes his accent. It’s not real. He just does it to sound more appealing.”

        “Weird motherfucker,” Ernest said, smiling as well.

        “Well, to start at the beginning: I think I was like, eleven, maybe twelve and I caught my dad with another man at some politicians’ ball or whatever. Now, dad caught me and was pissed and threatened to kill me if I ever told anyone et cetera et cetera et cetera--”

        “Kill you?” Ernest’s face turned pale as a sheet.

        “We never had the best relationship, even before shit hit the fan.” Henry leaned against the table. “Fast forward and I was fourteen and just found out that I liked boys and I thought that, you know, my dad would understand, because he clearly did too. I’ll...I’ll spare you the details. I don’t really want to scare you anymore than I already have, but it was bad. Like really, really bad.”

        “What did you do?” Ernest’s thin voice didn’t match with the rest of his body.

        “I panicked. Had a complete breakdown and ran away to Bastion. It wasn’t all that different from this time,” Ernest winced. “I was content to let myself stay there until...I don’t know...I died of exposure of something. But, here’s the part that’s supposed to be comforting. Your dad dragged me out of hell.”

        Ernest raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

        “I mean, I told him everything. What happened and why. And I fully expected him to just leave me there in the cold. But he didn’t. He brought be a jacket and he took me home and I basically just stayed with Victor until we went to college. He gave me everything, even though I was just an anxious kid he barely knew. And you know what?” Henry shot a smile to Ernest.

        “What?” he was completely and abjectly miserable.

        “He supports me and Victor. He’ll support you and Jascha too,” Henry laughed.

        “Wait wait wait. You...and Victor,” Ernest’s eyes were the size of saucers.

        “Um, yeah. You didn’t know? I thought it was kinda obvious at this point. Elizabeth and Justine too, if you need to be filled in,” Henry furrowed his eyebrows. Something seemed off. Not with Ernest, just in general.

        “Elizabeth and Justine. My dude, I had no idea,” Ernest gave Henry a half smile. There was someone watching them, but they were practically in a fishbowl, so Henry was probably just imagining it.

        “Yeah, you’re really not that observant are you?”

        “Well, it’s not exactly like I keep up with that part of my family very much,” Ernest huffed.

        “If it makes you feel any better, and I’m not sure that it will, I don’t think Victor had any ulterior motive for texting you. Not saying you should have responded, because you shouldn’t have, but I think he’s gotten a little better.”

        “It’s a little far too fucking late,” Ernest didn’t quite seem angry, but Henry’s head was spinning.

        No. He definitely felt it now. Yellow eyes watched him through the glass, like a cat stalking the family aquarium.

        “Woah, woah, Henry. Dude, it’s not that big of a deal. I’m not mad at you. Why are you shaking?” Ernest rose and gently grabbed Henry by the wrist.

        “We need to leave. We need to leave right now,” Henry grabbed for his bag, but accidentally hit Ernest in the side.

        “Dude, dude, it’s okay. What do you say? Breathe in and out, right? In and out,” Ernest helped Henry get situated and pressed his journal into his hands.

        “No no no no, we have to leave. I can’t--” Had his vision always been this fuzzy? Ernest held him pressed against his chest so he wouldn’t fall. The door handle moved.

        “Henry Lucien Clerval,” he growled, voice clinging to the floor.

        “Hey, what the fuck man? We were having a conversation. Go find your own damn--” The familial resemblance was striking, and Henry knew it and hated it. Lawrence pulled him away from Ernest by his wounded arm.

        “Do you have any idea what type of stress your mother and I have been through since you decided to play your little disappearing act?” he hissed.

        “Let me go,” Henry begged, but he was lost beneath his father and Ernest’s pleas.

        “The press has been hounding our doorstep and for what? Just to see if some worthless little brat has appeared. It has been hell trying to cover for your selfish mistakes. I just had to speak with the school. Do you know how many speeches I’ve had to give and memos defending your sorry little ass and I find you here, as if nothing has happened.” Lawrence raised a hand and Henry curled into his arms to defend himself, exposing his neck.

        “Please please please please,” he repeated into his elbow.

        “What’s this?” his voice dropped and he grabbed Henry’s chin. He ran his fingers over the small mark Victor had left earlier. “It’s back to this again?”

        Henry felt the skin of his arm tear and blood start to stain his shirt. He wanted to scream for help, but it seemed like his father had a vice grip around his throat. Even Ernest had grown silent.

        “You leave us,” he punctuated every word. “So that you may fuck around and sodomize little boys. You and all the other fucking faggots.” There was a breath, a pause for air, and Henry tried to push him away. “No. You’re coming back with me,”

        “No. No no no, you can’t. I can’t. No,” Henry begged as he was pulled out of the room. At the last moment, he threw his journal at Ernest. His father could not have that.

        As he was dragged across campus, blood running down his arm, panic turned to acceptance which turned to wrath.

 

* * *

 

        The airport had been crowded that day. He flew out of O’Hare, early to avoid the crowds, but despite the ungodly hour, his dad and Elizabeth had insisted on driving him out. He remembered the blur of bodies, brown briefcases and spinning wheels, the dull drone of an overtired PA system, the hesitant warmth of September air, which seemed to follow them even into the enclosed terminal. One hand clutched an overstuffed suitcase and the other shakily held to his pass. Excitement pulsed through his head, his chest, his feet and the linger of summer left him sun drunk and satisfied. His heart was soaring with the weight of it and everywhere he seemed to turn, the future opened before him.

        He had discovered independence and the mysterious pull of what seemed to be love in the same season and had not yet been forced to learn the price of either.

        Elizabeth made him pose for at least twelve photos while they were waiting for the plane to board, bullying him into weird angles and positions as his father looked on and laughed. When the time had come for him to depart, she had pulled him into a tight hug and listened as he promised to call every single week, maybe more if he could.

        “I know how focused you get,” she had said, “but don’t get too wrapped up in it. You need sleep too.”

        He told her he knew.

        “You’re going to do great.” His father had added, beaming at him. “It’s not every day that a university like Ingolstadt recruits an undergrad freshman for such an involved project as cellular regeneration. You do us proud, Victor.”

        He told him that he knew that too and then it was off down the jet bridge without a backwards glance.

        The next time he’d seen his father, it had been in a hospital waiting room, waiting for the other to sign the documents necessary to take him home to a care facility in the US. That occasion was far less joyful then the first, full of long dark looks and soft, tired words and questions that he couldn’t answer. Why hadn’t Victor called? Why did he let it get this bad? What caused it? Why now, so long after their mother had died? It had been six years and it didn’t make sense. He couldn’t explain either. It was eventually decided that the stress of being suddenly cut off from his support system had caused the breakdown and any undergraduate plans involving separation from Henry or Elizabeth were scrapped, which honestly suited him just as well.

        Victor couldn’t pull his eyes away from the photo of himself on the bookshelf.

        Victor wasn't sure how long he’d been sitting in the study his father had vacated. Certainly less than forty-one minutes because that was the exact amount of time it took to drive to the university from the house and back again. Victor wondered if his father was going to tell Henry the news on the ride home. Probably not. He had probably already reasoned with himself that this was something Victor needed to confront directly. That, in order to cope, Victor had to see Henry’s soft heart shatter right before his eyes. He’d probably make him call Elizabeth, too.

        I can’t go through the aftermath of Ingolstadt again.

        Like a seafarer set adrift, Victor could see the storm brace the horizon, could feel it in the stiffening of his ligaments, in the violent swirl of his stomach, in the sour tang on his tongue. It was everything he’d come to be viscerally familiar with a week ago, sitting in the cold tub, waiting for his voice to fail from overuse, but intensified and removed, as if he were watching the action from a step to one side. The panic, the grief, the overwhelming, visceral wrongness, lapped vaguely on the edges of his conscious.

        Victor fixed eyes with the boy in the picture, the better version of the son he should be. He thought maybe he should be screaming or crying or something, but his body was static overlapping flesh.

        No.

        Okay, no, he wasn’t going to fall apart again, not the way his father seemed sure he would. His eyes strayed from the photo to the one of Henry, stretched beneath the birch tree. He couldn’t do that to Henry, not now, not ever. Remember, Victor reminded himself as he forced his arms to uncurl and his detached body to stand, he couldn’t drag Henry down with him, even if he was drowning.

        There had to be other options.

        So Victor held his emotions at arm’s length like the scientist he was as he vacated the study. He wandered into the kitchen and checked the wall clock. 9:15. Okay. His father usually went to bed at ten, so it was likely that Henry had asked to be collected at 9:30. That gave Victor thirty minutes to come up with a convincing argument against hospitalization before his father returned to ‘continue the conversation.’ That was...doable. He’d certainly done more with less.

        First things first, call Elizabeth and get her on his side. She would support him even against their father. And he could count on Henry, of course. Probably.

        Victor retrieved his phone from the couch and dialed Elizabeth. The phone rang and rang, but eventually went to voicemail. That was...weird. Elizabeth always picked up for him. Always. He tried to call again. Voicemail.

        “Hey, Liz. It’s Victor.” He said after the tone. It was an effort to keep his voice stable, but he managed it well if he did say so himself. “Sorry I’ve been out of pocket these last few days, I- Well, I’m sure dad has filled you in on things. If you could call me back, that would be great.”

        He hung up. It was fine. No need to call again and panic her. She would call him back in a bit.

        Still, something bugged Victor. He clicked down in his contacts.

        More ringing. Voicemail. “Justine, hey, it’s, uh, Victor. Sorry for, uh...well, there’s a lot to apologize for, but...well, I was looking for Elizabeth. You don’t happen to know where she is, do you? Call me back.”

        Weird. Definitely, definitely weird.

        Victor sat back and stared at the phone. It was 9:20 now.

        He flipped the phone closed. “It’s fine,” he told the empty room, “they’re probably just fucking and that’s why they’re not answering. You’re just being paranoid because you’ve managed to wind yourself up. Understandable, all things considered…”

Considering his father’s betrayal.

        Victor flipped open his phone again. Closed it. Checked his texts. Checked the clock. Flipped the phone open. Closed. Open. Closed. Open. Closed. Open. Closed. Open. Clos-

        This was useless. There was nothing he could do about this, even if he hated waiting.

        He set the phone between his hands and sat purposefully on the couch. It was 9:30. His father would be back by 9:45, 9:50. He could last that long. He would fix this, one way or another.

        He glanced to the phone once more.

        But, god, he would feel so much better if someone called him back.

 

* * *

 

        Jascha fell asleep listening to music. He was dreaming about Swan Lake. In it, he was little. Maybe five or six. He got to dance the part of one of the little swans even though he was a boy, because he was pretty and agreed to wear a tutu. He was pulled from the dream by the slam of a door and the sound of water running in the bathroom. He didn’t stir until he heard the sound of someone retch.

        “Ernest?” He asked. No answer, besides the sound of someone vomiting. He got up, sparked by adrenaline. “Ernest?” He asked more loudly.

        He heard the toilet flush and the shower start. He crossed the room in a few long strides. He saw Ernest, crumpled on the floor over the toilet. He was dry heaving and hyperventilating. He sounded like he was sobbing, but there weren’t really tears. Jascha knelt beside him and held his curls out of his eyes.

        “What happened?” Jascha rubbed his back, wincing as he threw up again. “Please, Ernest, you need to tell me what’s happening,” He pleaded. Ernest leaned against him between the bouts of nausea.

        “I...It’s Henry. He’s gonna die. His dad…” Ernest threw up again. Now he was really crying. “I can’t be gay. I can’t. Jascha, we’re going to die. Henry’s probably already dead.”

        Jascha swallowed hard. He needed to be cool. If he let himself panic along with Ernest, everything would get worse. He pressed a kiss against Ernest’s temple, but Ernest flinched away.

        “No!” Ernest yelled. His tone was less angry and more horrified. Jascha felt like he’d been stabbed. Ernest dissolved back into another round of dry heaving.

        “What happened to Henry?” Jascha asked, feigning calm. Ernest’s panic was quickly escalating into full on screams, and Jascha was worried they’d be caught. “Ernest, please.”

        “His dad. His dad caught him, with me.” Ernest rocked back and forth over the toilet. He took a sharp breath. “I-I just froze. I couldn’t...Jascha, I’m why he’s gonna die. I didn’t do anything!” Ernest screamed. His chest rose and fell as if he’d been sprinting, and his body was hot to the touch.

        “Did you call anyone?” Jascha asked quietly. He kept his voice low and measured.

        Ernest shook his head and covered his face with his hands. “I couldn’t. I can’t. I can’t call my dad. The police wouldn’t care.” His body shook almost as hard as his voice. “I-I need to call my dad.”

        Jascha thought for a minute, thinking of the frat. It was 9:00 PM on a Friday. Most of the guys were out. But they would come home, and Ernest was loud. “Okay. I have a plan, but I need your help. Okay?” He stroked Ernest’s hair.

        “O-Okay. Yeah.” Ernest nodded weakly.

        “Where’s your phone?” Jascha said, forcing his voice to be commanding.

        “Backpack.” Ernest said.

        Jascha stood up and stepped lightly around Ernest, walking into his room. His backpack was left by the door. He dug through it until he found the cellphone, carrying it back to the bathroom. He sat back beside Ernest on the floor. “Is your dad in your contacts?” Jascha asked. Ernest nodded. “Okay.” He found the contact labeled ‘Dad’s cell,’ and hit call. Within the first ring someone picked up.

        “Ernest?” A baritone voice said on the other line.

        “Uh, no, sir. This is his roommate,” Jascha said. He hesitated to say his name. He angled the phone away from Ernest as he fell into another fit of heaving.

        “Is Ernest there? What is the matter?” Alphonse said sharply.

        “He’s okay. I’m with him. He just...Listen, Henry is in danger, apparently.” Jascha got to the point.

        “What happened?” Alphonse’s tone was dark. “Is there someone vomiting? May I please speak to my son?” Jascha looked at Ernest, who shook his head at him.

        “Uh, not right now. He’s-” Jascha was interrupted by Ernest grabbing the phone from him.

        “Dad?” Ernest said. His voice was raspy from the retching.

        “Ernest? What’s going on?” Alphonse asked, his voice raised in concern. Ernest fell again into hard sobs.

        “I-I’m sorry, I couldn’t help him. Henry- He’s going to die, and it’s all my fault!” He drew in a breath, burying his face in his knees.

        “Ernest, you need to speak more clearly. Where is Henry?” Alphonse said coolly.

        Ernest drew several shallow breaths. Jascha rubbed his back. “I-We met, to talk about...things. And this guy- he just--grabbed him and…” Ernest spoke a million miles and hour and had to stop for breath. “Dad, I know...what happened. When he was a kid.”

        Alphonse was quiet for a minute. “Was the man his father?”

        Ernest shoved the cell phone back into Jascha’s hands as he lurched back over the toilet to be sick again. Ernest panted and trembled. Jascha held the phone to his ear.

        “Ernest? Ernest, are you there?” Alphonse asked.

        “Uh, no, sorry. He gave the phone back.” Jascha said. “But yes, it was Henry’s dad. That’s what he told me earlier.”

        “Did he see where they went?” Alphonse asked. Ernest shook his head.

        “No, sir.” Jascha said. He could feel his own heart race.

        “I’ll handle it. Tell him it will be okay, and Henry will be fine.” Alphonse paused. Jascha nodded to himself. “Is my son safe?” He asked.

        “Uh, yeah. I’ll be with him.” Jascha said quickly.

        “Tell him he can come home if he needs to.” Alphonse said, his tone softer. “I need to go find Henry. Please look after Ernest. Can you put him back on the line for a minute?”

        Jascha handed the phone back to Ernest, helping him hold it to his ear. “I’m here, dad.” He said weakly.

        “Ernest, none of this is your fault. Absolutely none of it.” This only made Ernest cry harder. “And I love you. Please, please come home if you feel at all unsafe.”

        “I-I will. I’m...gonna stay here. Right now. Thanks.” Ernest wiped his eyes and hung up.

        There was a moment of relative quiet as Ernest lapsed into exhaustion. He was still audibly upset, and speaking incoherently about Henry, being gay, et cetera. Jascha’s blood froze as he thought he heard movement downstairs. He shook Ernest’s shoulder gently.

        “Ernest. Ernest, we need to leave.” Jascha said quickly. “We need to leave this frat right now. You have a car, right? And a credit card?”

        Ernest leaned his head against his shoulder for support, trying to catch his breath well enough to talk. “Why? Where…?”

        “Because you’re panicking. And it’s about...you know. We need to go.” He tried to keep his own voice quiet. “We can get a hotel. For the night. Or for the whole weekend. We need to get out of here so that we can think.”

        New fear fell across Ernest’s face. “Do...the guys know?” His eyes grew wide. “Jascha, do they know?”

        Jascha bit his lip. “I...don’t know. Mason has said, uh, things.” Jascha felt Ernest tense up.

        “He knows? How does he already know?! We haven’t even- We never even really, like  really , really, had sex. I- I’m not even…” He was yelling again. Jascha held his shoulders tightly.

        “Shh, please. If they hear us, it’ll be worse.” Jascha couldn’t keep his calm now, and he knew he sounded scared.

        “How? How?!” Ernest yelled at him. “Did you tell them?!”

        “No!” Jascha shouted. He dropped back down to a whisper. “I wouldn’t do that. Ever. We need to leave. Now.”

        Ernest nodded feebly. “Can you drive? I...I really can’t right now.”

        Jascha felt like the wind was kicked out of him. Could he? He felt dizzy. “I...don’t have my license on me. I lost it.”

        “Jascha, I really can’t…”

        “Okay.” Jascha said quickly. He thought he heard steps on the stairs. “Fine. We need to go. If anyone asks, it’s Ashley again.” Ernest nodded.

        Jascha packed up both their bags after shutting off all the taps in the bathroom. He packed two days worth of clothes for each of them, their toothbrushes, and grabbed Ernest’s CD player as well as the borrowed CD of the Vitali. He shoved all of it into a plastic bag and helped Ernest clean up enough so that he looked upset rather than insane. They made it out the door, catching a slew of glances from a couple of the guys and their girlfriends. Jascha waved quickly at Lin, trying to seem normal. They made it to Ernest’s Volvo without too much trouble. Jascha threw their stuff into the backseat and made sure Ernest’s seat belt was fastened securely. As he got into the driver’s seat, he felt a cold wave of dread.

        “What’s wrong?” Ernest asked. Jascha’s hand had been hovering over the ignition for a few seconds, and he’d gone pale.

        “I…” He couldn’t explain why he kept hearing the sound of crunching metal and a car horn, mostly because he didn’t know why he was hearing it. “I’m fine.” He turned the car on, flinching as he felt the engine start.

        Ernest instructed him on where to go. Driving wasn’t exactly hard, since it was all muscle memory, but he felt like screaming at every intersection. When they got on the highway he nearly had to pull over when a truck passed him. He did pull over when a car horn blew. He leaned his head against the edge of the steering wheel and tried to catch his breath.

        “Jascha?” Ernest asked.

        “I’m okay,” he said. “Give me a minute.” He sounded more sure than he was. He relaxed when he felt Ernest’s hand against his back.

        After a few minutes they went back on the road, and drove for a few exits. Jascha had insisted that they find a hotel outside of the city, lest someone recognized them. They pulled into the first shady motel they could find. Jascha finally breathed again when he could turn off the car.

        “Okay, so do we go in together, or…?” Jascha asked. Ernest’s calm was wearing off now that he had rested a bit. He was starting to look bad again. “Okay. Give me your card. I’ll get the room and then come back for you. Sound good?” Ernest handed him the card.

        “It’s Dad’s.” He said as he saw Jascha’s jaw drop at it. It was a very expensive looking card, and it was heavy in his hands.

        Jascha put on his best ‘everything is fine’ face and walked into the motel. He wandered over to the front desk. “Hi, I’d like to, uh, get a room for the night. For two.”

        The man behind the desk didn’t even look at him. “We have two doubles, a suite with a queen, or you can get a California King suite.”

        “What’s the standard one?” Jascha asked. Now the dude looked at him. He raised an eyebrow.

        “If you got a girlfriend, the queen. Otherwise, the two bed.” He said coldly.

        “Uhhhh…” Ernest wasn’t a girlfriend, but he knew they’d end up sharing the bed. “I guess the double.” Best not to make things worse. He paid up, got the key, and ran back out to the car. He grabbed Ernest and the bags of stuff. He brought him to the room as quickly as possible, glancing at the desk person. He didn’t look up.

        Once they were in the room, he finally relaxed. Ernest lay down on one of the beds, curling into the fetal position. Jascha lay down on the bed beside him, causing Ernest to curl away from him. He looked over at him, and saw his shoulders were shaking.

        “...Why did you have to come to the frat?” Ernest finally said. “Everything was fine before you showed up.” Jascha felt something twist inside him.

        “What do you mean?” Jascha said, keeping his tone even.

        “I was doing fine.” Ernest said. “I had a girlfriend. I, like, never thought about...guys. Like that. Then you showed up, and turned me gay.”

        Jascha felt a shot of anger. “I didn’t turn you gay. That’s not how this works.” He said sharply. “You’d be gay anyways. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else.”

        “But it was you!” Ernest said, raising his voice. “And- and you’re, like, gay. If it had been someone else, maybe they wouldn’t have been, and I never would have-”

        “Fucked a guy?” Jascha bit back.

        “We didn’t fuck.” Ernest said coldly. “We just...jerked each other off. It was a mistake.”

        “Was it?” Jascha said sharply. He tried not to sound hurt. It really, really hurt. “Because you liked it at the time, if I remember right.”

        Ernest turned to look at him. “It was a mistake because I liked it. I never-We never should have let anything happen. Because now we’re both…” His eyes glazed over with fear. “We’re in danger. Like Henry. His dad...He probably thinks he’s sleeping with me. And…” Ernest took a breath. “And everything would be over. If anyone found out.”

        “I don’t care.” Jascha said. “I’d still do it. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

        “It doesn’t matter whether it was wrong! If everyone thinks it’s wrong, then it’s wrong! That’s how this stuff works.” Ernest was working himself up again. Jascha could practically see his pulse rise. “Even if, like, it’s not actually bad. If- If everyone thinks it’s bad, then it’s bad. If it puts us in danger, it’s bad.” Ernest took another sharp breath.

        “Do you want me to leave?” Jascha said. He was tired. “I’ll go to the other bed.” He sat up, but felt Ernest grab his arm. He looked down at him.

        “Don’t.” Ernest said softly.

        “If you want me to stay, you have to tell me.” Jascha sighed. “I...I can’t deal with this.”

        Ernest was quiet for several seconds, but didn’t let go of Jascha’s arm. “Do I have to tell anyone else?” He said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

        “No. Just me.” Jascha said softly.

        “Then I want you to stay,” Ernest said stiffly. His body softened a little as fresh tears welled in his eyes. “I’m just...so scared, man.”

        Jascha lay back down and pulled Ernest close to him, wrapping his arms around him tightly. He felt Ernest’s fingers dig into his shoulders, and he could feel his body shake.

        “Do you have anything you need to do this weekend?” Jascha spoke into his hair.

        “Semifinals. Home game.” Ernest said into his chest. “Tomorrow. If we win, finals on Sunday.” Jascha stroked his back.

        “Okay,” Jascha vaguely remembered that Ernest had mentioned the end of the soccer season a week or so ago. He felt Ernest sink more of his weight against him.

        “You’ll...come, right?” Ernest said softly. “I know I’ve been, like, a bitch today...and you don’t have to. I just, like...want you to be there.”

        “I’ll come. Don’t worry about it.” He nuzzled Ernest’s hair gently, all his anger dissipating.

        He wanted to explain to him everything that had happened; Victor, Mason, all of it. But that would stress him out even more, so he just held him and let him cry into his chest for as long as he needed to. After an hour, Ernest’s breathing grew level and he slipped into sleep. Jascha stayed awake until he heard the birds sing and the lavender light of dawn, thinking about the drive to the hotel and the memory of crunching metal and a woman screaming.


	20. Offense is the Best Defense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry speaks to his father. Victor goes AWOL. Jascha experiences soccer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thanks for sticking with us! As always, we love hearing from you.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Violence, homophobic slurs, ableist slurs, reference to conversion therapy.

        How? How could anyone watch an old man drag a kid across campus and throw him in a car? Henry mentally took a step back and calculated. All in all, this was a quiet affair from beginning to end. There was no screaming or yelling or anything to alert anyone that something terrible was about that happen, not that anyone would do anything anyway. Oh no, Lawrence Clerval could not yell in public. That would have been bad for his image. Just imagine what the press would say. Henry felt like he was floating.

        Why couldn’t he say anything? That’s all it would take. One plea for help and someone would ask what’s wrong and then he’d be free. Henry wanted to scream and cry and let all the pain tear from him like fire, but he couldn't. He was sitting in the back of his father’s car motionless and expressionless. He forced his fingers to move even though it felt like he was underwater. His phone. It was in his pocket and if he could just get to it, he could text for help.

        He fumbled it open and scrolled through his contacts. Elizabeth? No, there was nothing she could do. Justine? Same. Fuck. It was difficult to read anything with the rocking of the car and his hazed vision.

        Frankenstein. Perfect. That was great. Alphonse knew. He could save him. He just had to type a coherent message.  _Dad has me. In trouble. Scared._   Not exactly the coherence he had in mind, but his plan was interrupted when his father snatched the phone from his hands at a red light.

        “No texting. No calling either. We’ll discuss more when we’re home,” he snapped. Henry folded his hands in his lap and felt his nails leave crescent moon impressions in his skin. The pain in his arm settled to a dull throb, but it was still bleeding. Henry pressed his shoulder back against the seat and smirked when blood started pooling on the leather. Good luck explaining that one to the cleaner. It was petty, Henry knew, but every ounce of him wanted to tear him to shreds. If he was going to suffer, then goddamn it, he was taking his father down with him.

        Anger clawed just under his skin. Twenty-three years and this was it? No. Never. Years with the Frankensteins taught Henry what life was like; what a real life was like. It wasn’t the fear and hatred and loathing that had characterized his childhood. No. Through every terrible thing that happened, with Victor, Ernest, their mom, everyone, there was love and hope and joy and a place to return to. Henry would be damned if he were going to give that up for his father. The Frankensteins had given him a life and that was worth protecting.

        They drove up the long driveway to the house. It was exactly decadent as he remembered. Roses bloomed even though it was well into fall. The edges of their petals were ragged and brown from the early season frosts. Henry pulled himself from the car without the help of his father. It took seven steps to get to the stairs that led to the door. He counted each as he took them. There were four stairs until he could ring the doorbell. These were all familiar movements that he had performed for his entire life. The doorbell would ring for fifteen seconds before his mother got the door if she with in the sitting room, twenty if she were in the kitchen.

        Henry pressed the button and counted. The tiny bits of attention to detail were the only threads keeping his soul attached to his body. If he let them be cut, he was gone; lost to another one of his meltdowns. That could not happen. Not now.

        It took eleven seconds for his mother to answer the door. It most definitely was a new record. Her golden pin curls and a-line dress made it look like she had been teleported straight out of a 50’s cooking show. How horrible must it be to be married to his father? Who was Henry kidding? She was exactly like him: beaten, battered, and bruised. She knew. She knew how horrible it was and still, she did nothing. All these years and she let him be beaten.

        “Oh Henry Lucien,” she cooed over him on the doorstep taking his cheeks in hand. “We have been so worried about you. Just worried sick! We thought you would never come home.” She kissed his face and he had to fight back the overwhelming urge to both slap her and claw away his own skin. He tore himself from he grasp and sat down in  the chair.  It was the same chair they used for all of these conversations. The green leather was old and worn down with Henry’s tears. He placed his wrists on the armrests, leaned back and crossed his legs. A throne placed in hell was a throne nonetheless.

        “We heard there was an accident and were devastated when you didn’t call. The police were here and asked us all these dreadful questions and we just didn’t know where our sweet baby boy had gone,” his mother walked in and sat on the couch across from him. “Your father must have spent the whole day answering questions from press, your school, the police, everyone. I’ve never seen him so distraught.”

        Lawrence walked in, Henry’s phone still in hand. He held it in front of Henry’s face. “Trying to text Victor Frankenstein? I thought you were smarter than that. That bitch can’t pull it together long enough to make it out his front door, never mind to here.”

        Oh no. Fuck. That made things a lot worse.

        “Which one of the Frankenstein boys are you fucking then?” he snarled.

        “Lawrence Thibault, language!” Meredith gasped. Henry didn’t move an inch.

        “No, I want to know. After everything we’ve done for you. All the money we’ve spent. Every single interview where I talked about my precious son doing wonderful things away at school. This is how you repay us? With betrayal?” He paced back and forth in front of the chair. Henry was calm. He was totally in control of this situation. “We’ve been so scared, for all these years that we’d never get to see you again...that we had squandered our chance at a normal life.” Great. An act to try to appeal to his sense of empathy. This would be fun. “We’ve only ever wanted what was best for you. We want you to come home.”

        “That’s nice, dad. Did mom coach you?” The iron voice that came from his throat did not sound like his own.

        “Henry Lucien--” she tried to cut in.

        “No. What is this really? An ambush? A kidnapping?” he could feel the rage threatening to claw its way through his ribs. “A warm family reunion?”

        “We thought you were dead,” his voice rose.

        “I wish I were. Then I would never have to talk to you ever again,” Henry’s voice rose to match. Silence hung in the air like fog.

        “Do you think we’re lying? Do you think I don’t know what it’s like to be alone? We want a better life for you. What’s best for you--”

        “You want what is best for you- you and your fucking political career. If I wasn’t a dark mark on it, you wouldn’t give a damn,” Silence coiled around Henry like a viper. “That’s it, isn’t it. How can you hide your missing son- your son who has currently shown up in every newspaper in the state.”

        “Listen, you little brat. We gave you everything. We loved you,” he picked up Henry by the front of his shirt.

        “You didn’t love me. You never did. You broke a bottle over my head, left me to die in the cold,” He stopped, the words sticking in his throat like blood. “You wanted to  change  me. That’s not what loving parents do. I was a kid”  Henry stared into his father’s eyes. They blistered yellow, like poison. His own burned amber and radiant. He was nothing like his father.

        “Henry, I know what it’s like. The therapist...it could have worked if you gave it a chance,” Lawrence pulled Henry on his feet and pressed him against a wall.

        “How, Father? Pray tell. Is it because you’re a fucking faggot too?” Henry felt his father hit him and the blood well in his mouth.

        “You’re lying,” Lawrence’s screaming was barely comprehensible.

        “If I were lying, you wouldn’t have hit me,” Henry snarled. “Do you want to know something?”

        “You are exactly like me. Don’t think you can ever escape. Anywhere you could go, I could follow.”

        “No,” Henry’s voice dropped low and dangerous. “We’re nothing alike. You’re a coward and ashamed. You think beating your estranged son gives you legitimacy? Good luck explaining that one to the press.” He felt his father hit him again and again. Somewhere in his head, he heard his mother crying for him to stop and his father screaming half-thought insults. Was he trying to get himself killed? Because this would be how he dies. Somewhere along the line, he hit the ground and he felt his father’s shoe against his ribs.

        All sensation seemed to buzz in the background. Blood rushed to his head and he felt for certain that he would pass out. He felt nothing except static when Lawrence dragged him up the stairs and into his old room. He heard his knees hit the carpet and door locking behind him.

        “You will come out when I say you may,” Lawrence shrieked like an animal. Then, Henry was alone. One by one, his feeling returned to him and as they did, each thread was cut. The room was white, clean, and straight out of a nightmare. He tried to haul himself onto his feet using the bed and his hand left a smear of blood. It looked like a frog’s footprint. There was one window, perfectly polished and shining. Henry opened it, leaving marks as he went. There were 24 feet in two stories, so statistically he could survive the fall. Or, more likely, he could shatter his joints and die a slow, agonizing death in the cold.

        Henry shut the window and turned to the mirror. His face was, surprisingly, fine. He had a bruise where his father connected with his jaw, but that was fine. He peeled off his shirt and had to tear it from the wound in his arm. Bruises covered his ribs turning his skin a mottled blue and yellow. He pressed down on one and it ached. Blood covered his teeth and was smeared across his glasses giving everything a sticky red cast. He looked like a monster.

        All at once, panic flooded the cavity where wrath had been. What would happen to Ernest? Or Victor? They couldn’t put themselves in danger trying to rescue him. They just couldn't. Henry would never forgive himself. Henry got himself into this mess and he could get himself out. Except he couldn’t. He tried the door. It was really and truly locked. He took stock. He had no phone and his bag was downstairs. He had nothing.

        A wave of nausea passed over him. He half ran, half crawled, to his dresser and retched into an empty drawer. He was in danger. The people he loved were in danger because he couldn’t he couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut. Daggers of cold cut into his shoulders. His knuckles were white and his palms hurt from being pressed into the side of the drawer. He was selfish and irresponsible. It felt like the oxygen was being sucked from the room.

        He had to get out. There had to be a way out. He tried the door handle again and pushed against it with all his might. He heard timid footsteps climbing up the stairs. Henry shrieked and slammed the heel of his hand against the door. It left blood. There was a pause and the footsteps came closer.

        “Henry Lucien? Sweetheart? Your father will forgive you.” His mother. Henry crumpled into a ball at the door and hit his forehead against the frame. “I’ve made you an appointment with Dr. Waldman tomorrow morning for 10AM so get some sleep, sweetie. Everything is going to be okay.”

        Henry wept and forced his forehead into the wood. Anything. Anything but that.

 

* * *

  

        The clock said 10:00. Then 10:10. Then 10:20.

        His phone remained silent and still in his hands. His father had yet to appear.

        Victor frowned and rechecked his mental math for the fifth time in the last fifteen minutes. Forty-one minutes exactly to the school and forty-one back. If he factored in Henry running late, traffic, or gas, he could push that estimate up to sixty minutes. But Henry hardly ever ran late and traffic wasn’t bad this time of night and his father always filled up the gas tank on Thursdays to ensure maximum commuter efficiency.

        10:26.

        Victor checked the phone again. “Okay.” He muttered to no one in particular. “We need to stop being a weirdo now.”

        He set the phone off to one side of the coffee table and stood from the couch, beginning a slow pace around the room. Which wasn’t much better.

        He sat back on the couch again.

        I’M A BARBIE GIRL IN A BARBIE WORLD! His ringtone screamed loudly. Victor scrambled for the phone, knocking a flower vase askew in his haste and just barely managing to catch it before it hit the floor. He righted it and grabbed the screaming object. With both his hands white on the plastic casing, Victor flipped open the phone and scanned the screen. Not a call, okay, so not Elizabeth. He pulled up his texts.

        Henry.

        Why was Henry texting him? Maybe to let him know why he and his father were running so late.

  _ Dad has me. In trouble. Scared. _

Victor frowned at the screen. Of course his dad had him. He knew Alphonse was supposed to pick him up, right? Why was he in trouble? Maybe he was having another panic attack. The stray thought set Victor on edge as he pushed his fingers to the keyboard.

You good?  Victor typed out.  Everything okay? You seem confused, are you still with Ernest?

He hovered over the send button. A glint of something bright and odd caught his eyes, drawing Victor from the phone to the place where Henry’s watch lay on the coffee table. He hadn’t had the chance to give it back yet. Henry was probably missing it.

        Something in Victor’s mind clicked.

        “He doesn’t mean my dad.”

        The spike of panic shot through him almost immediately, but Victor battered it back as he exited out of the text function on his phone.

        This time when he called, he got an answer on the third ring.

        “Victor.” His father’s low voice was strained and tight. “Why are you calling?”

        “Dad, it’s Henry, I- I think-”

        “I know.” Victor was quickly cut off. “Did he text you?”

        “Just that his dad had him and that he was scared.” Victor couldn’t sit still so he began to pace again, tight circles around the room.

        “Okay.” Over the line, Victor could hear a car door slam. “Did he say anything about where they was going?”

        “No, I don’t think so.”

        His father sighed. It was easy to picture him, mouth taunt with worry, one hand dragging over his face. When he spoke again, the rawness in his voice was gone, replaced by that special tone he reserved exclusively for crisis, even, controlled, and calming. “Victor, don’t text him back.”

        “But-”

        “No, listen. I need you to leave this to me. I’ll take care of it. In the meantime, you stay with William and stay near the phones. If Henry calls or texts again, you need to let me know right away.”

        “Wait,” Victor begged, “wait, no, you need to let me help. If Henry’s dad really does have him-”

        “Then the last thing you need to be doing is going after him.” His father interrupted sternly. “Especially if Lawrence is pulling the same kind of act he did last time. You’re already in a fragile enough state and how do you think it would look to show up with you in tow when Lawrence probably already knows about Henry’s feelings for you?”

        “But you’re going to go get him, right?” With conscious effort and limited success, Victor tried to match his father’s calmness.

        His father didn’t answer for a moment. “I think the best thing to do in the situation is to go to the police-”

        “What?!” Victor must have yelled that last part because William appeared at in the doorway.  What’s going on?  He mouthed to Victor. Victor waved him off and pressed the phone harder to his ear. “You can’t just leave him with his father, you know what happened last time! Dad, we almost lost him! We can’t lose him!”

        “Victor!” Severity pierced through and, without words, Victor knew he had reached the end of his rope. “Listen to me. You  will  stay with William. You  will not  leave that house until I’ve arrived back home and you  will not  try to get in touch with Henry. Leave this to me. We’ll both worsen the situation by trying to get involved with it directly. If Lawrence has come back for Henry after all this time…”

        The silence hung thick as cotton.

        “Stay with William.” His father repeated. “I mean it Victor.”

        He hung up. Victor set the phone down.

        “Was that Dad?” William ran over to Victor as the older stared at the phone clutched tightly in his hand. “What’s wrong with Uncle Henry? Is everything okay?”

        Victor rounded on him, causing William to take a step back. “William, what’s your babysitter’s name?”

        “Uh…” William shook his head and shrugged. “Usually Justine takes care of me when Dad goes out of town for business trips. I don’t know, I don’t really need a babysitter anymore. I’m eleven. Are you okay?”

        “Yeah.” Victor replied and, somehow, he actually meant it. The deep seated, boiling panic which had welled within him over the course of the evening remained, yes, but rather than an all consuming force of destructive fire, the raging flames were almost therapeutic. Like a controlled burn licking through his sternum. Like the way he felt when he brought Jascha back. Vindictive and in control for the first time in weeks.

        He felt like Victor Frankenstein.

        “You, uh, sure about that?” William’s eyes flicked over him as he drew another step back. “You’ve got your crazy eyes on.”

        Victor grabbed both of William’s shoulders. “William, Uncle Henry’s in trouble and I need to go help him, but I can’t bring you along because Henry’s dad is a batshit bastard who kicks kids for fun. Do you have a friend’s house you can go to for the night?”

“I-” William grabbed Victor’s arm, “wait, I want to go with you!”

        “Uh, no, absolutely not.”

        “I can help!” William said insistently.

        “Did you miss the ‘kicks kids for fun’ part?” Victor pulled away from William and snatched his phone from the table, starting to click through his contacts. “You’re not coming. Please save your teenage rebellion for actually being a teenager.”

        “I’m not a child!”

        “Aren’t you like seven or something?” Victor brought the phone to his ear. “Hey, Ms. Haberdeen! Yeah, yeah, it’s Victor! Victor Frankenstein. I’m doing okay- I-” Victor stood on his tippy toes as his shorter brother attempted to snatch the device from his hands. Victor turned around and put the kid in a loose headlock, just barely managing to hang onto him as he struggled. He silently thanked Ernest for ‘demonstrating’ the move on him as a kid. “Yeah, school’s great, really excellent....Still doing medicine, yep...No, I don’t have a girlfriend...Hey, I have a favor to ask for my dad-”

        William bit him, causing Victor to yelp. He tightened the choke hold. “William, this is not the time to start proving you’re actually related to me.” He hissed away from the phone’s speaker. William flipped him off.

        “Yes, yes, I’m still here! Could you let my little brother stay with you for the night?...Yeah, just the one...I need to do something out of town…”

        William kicked him in the shin.

        “Shit! You little fucker- No, no, not you Ms. Haverdeen!...You’d be glad to take him? Great!...Yeah, we’ll be over in twenty.”

        Victor hung up and glared at William. “What was that for?!”

        “I want to come!”

        “And I told you, not a chance.”

        “You’re not in charge of me!” William yelled, suddenly red faced. “You’re not even a real adult!”

        “I’m twenty-three!”

        “Ernest says you have the brain of a toddler!”

        “I do not!”

        “Well, if you’re not a kid, why are you fighting me like one?”

        “Well…” Victor trailed, looking to his brother’s head squashed beneath his armpit. “Touché.” He released William, who dusted himself off angrily, staring pointedly at Victor all the while.  Victor raised an eyebrow. “You know, I always figured you took more after Dad, but you’ve got a shit ton of Mom in you.”

        “Is that a bad thing?”

        “Remains to be seen.” Victor ran a hand through his hair. “Fine. You can come. But you’re staying in the car.”

        “Fine.” William paused. “Neither of us can drive through.”

        “Leave that to me.”

        The grubby Plymouth wheezed as it rolled up to the front door where Victor and William both stood, Victor preparing his best ‘please, don’t kill me smile’ while William tried to wrap his head around the ‘undergraduate poverty in vehicle form’ that was Agatha’s car.

        “Aggie!” Victor exclaimed cheerfully as he guided William into the backseat of the coughing, wheezing machine. “Long time, no see! How are you?”

        The undergrad only glowered at him, hands vice on the steering wheel. “Could be better.” She ground out.

        “Yeah, I-” Victor rubbed his neck as he slid into shotgun. “That was my bad. It’s been a hectic week. Honestly,” he chuckled, “I kinda forgot you existed there for a while there.”

        Her expression didn’t change. The laughter shriveled in his throat. “Right. So, uh,” he pressed a wad of twenty dollar bills into her hand, “here’s your raise. And I’ll, uh, have the reference letter to transfer you to Dr. De Lacey’s lab ready by next Monday.”

        “This Monday.”

        “Yup, okay, this Monday.”

        Out of the corner of his eye, Victor could see William shoot him a concerned look.Victor purposefully avoided looking back.

        “So…”

        “Don’t talk to me.”

        “K.” Victor squeaked.

        The ride passed in overwhelmingly pregnant silence punctuated only occasionally by Victor checking his phone to see whether Justine or Elizabeth had responded to his texts. A resounding no on that end. No Justine, no Elizabeth, couldn’t call his dad. Just Victor, a disgruntled undergrad, and an actual infant potentially facing the guy that fucked Henry up enough to give him what basically amounted to childhood PTSD.

        As they approached the neighborhood, the suburbs dissolving slowly into mcmansions and finely manicured lawns, Victor turned back to William. “Okay, so here’s the plan. We’re going to park a bit down the street and I’m going to scout out the situation.”

        “Won’t you get caught?” William asked. “I thought all these houses had security systems.”

        “They do. I’m just really good at dodging them.”

        For the first time in the ride, Agatha seemed to tune back into the conversation, offering Victor a quick, critical glance. “How do you know how to do that?”

        “Do you want, like, an honest answer to that?”

        Agatha contemplated the smudgy front window. “No,” she finally decided, mouth pulled into a taught, flat line, “no, I don’t think I would.”

        The sign for Henry’s neighborhood flashed past, bright yellow and cheery with spotlights in the dark. It was a familiar sight, ingrained into him by childhood bike rides and driving to and from playdates, but still one altogether unwelcome. “Anyway,” he hurried on, “I’ll scope out the house to see if they’re home and to try and see if Henry’s there. With any luck, his parents will have, I don’t know, stepped out to go talk to the press about how they finally found their amazing long lost son and we can just snag Henry, but more realistically, since it’s late, we’re going to have to figure out a different way to do this.”

        “Such as?” William asked.

        “Well, I know the basement has a faulty latch.” Victor thought over all the tricks he used to use to sneak around Henry’s creepy and off putting parents. “And the bathroom window can be jimmied open with some work. Or I could just be an absolute bastard and ring the front doorbell. Give Henry time to get out.”

        “Didn’t you say Henry’s dad is dangerous?” William asked nervously.

        “Oh, he is.” Victor rubbed his chin. “He’s got about five inches on me, a fair bit more muscle mass, though that’s not saying much, and used to do wrestling in high school. I’m fairly certain if I were to try and fight him, I’d be dragged out of there in a body bag.”

        Even in the darkened car, Victor could see William’s eyes widen with terror and he hurried to cover his tracks. “It’s okay! I’m not going to fight him! I’m not that dumb.”

        “Debatable.” Agatha muttered.

        “Shut up. Point is, though, that I am an annoying little bitch and, theoretically, if I’m slick enough, I could buy Henry time without actually putting myself in danger.”

        “And if you’re not slick enough?”

        Victor grimaced. “He...probably wouldn’t murder me? Probably? He’s always hated me because my family was better than his perfect little 1950s wet dream, but he’s never actually hurt me or done anything to imply that he would. I mean, unless he’s figured out I’m gay for his son, in which case all bets are off the table.”

        “This isn’t comforting, Victor,” William whined.

        Victor leaned back and patted the kid’s head. “It’ll be fine, William. Like I said, I’ll scout out the situation first.” A flash of red rose forced Victor to take a sharp breath in. “This drive.” He couldn’t coach his voice above a whisper, but Agatha stopped the car anyway. It was too noisy to take the car down the street and, regardless of what he assured William, Victor didn’t trust Lawrence Clerval with anything. He wouldn’t put it above him to put an eleven year old in danger. He’d done it before, anyways. Better to leave just William here.

        As he left the car, Victor paused and flashed an optimistic grin back at his two child accomplaces. “If I’m not back in, like, an hour, just drive away and call my dad when you’re somewhere safe. Be back in a jiff.”

        (In a jiff? He must be more nervous than he realized.)

        He closed the door and, purposefully putting himself in the shadow of the long row of trees, started on the well established street up to Henry’s house. It was a few minutes of walking before the prison-like structure loomed into view, but even the outline of it stung bitterly along Victor’s vision. Roses in November. A perfectly manicured bush line. A barely visible sign across the front door reading  Clerval  in spindly white letters. Just as he remembered it.

        Victor dodged around the back of the house, paying extra mind to keep his now more lanky form out of the sight of the camera attached to the porch. Once in position, he held his breath and glanced up to the window he knew was Henry’s.

        Lights on.

        His heart bottomed out.

        “Shit.” He couldn’t help the small hiss of breath which escaped him. That limited his options.

        So. Basement door or direct confrontation? The house seemed quiet, a peaceful yellow light spilling across the backlawn from the living room window. It was maybe eleven thirty now? Twelve? He could wait for them to go to bed, sneak in, grab Henry, ride away into the night like an ugly prince charming. As long as he got him out of the house, Henry was of age. This could be reported as a kidnapping once he was back in the safety of Victor’s house. But then again, if Victor was caught inside, well. He was fairly certain Henry’s dad still owned that hunting gun and Henry would absolutely never forgive himself if Victor was shot trying to break him out. But, then again, Victor would never forgive himself in something happened to Henry while he was so close to freedom.

        Victor locked eyes with the living room window.

        Distraction it was. With practiced ease, he slinked out of the backyard and rounded into the front. Unlocked his jaw and relaxed his shoulders, shoving his hands into his pockets and adopting an easy, charitable smile as he moved.

        Even the doorbell sounded the same. Like the house was frozen in time and he was Henry’s weird, probably retarded little school friend all over again.

        It was Henry’s mom who answered, because of course it was.

        As she gawked at him, Victor smiled and made sure his voice was loud enough to carry. “Hello, Mrs. Clerval. Sorry to interrupt at such a late hour, but I was supposed to pick up Henry from school and I couldn’t seem to find him. He wouldn’t happen to be home, would he?”

 

* * *

 

        Jascha had only just fallen asleep when he was woken by 170-ish pounds of force elbowing him in the stomach. Well, that and the alarm on Ernest’s watch. Ernest had been laying more or less on top of him, so when he jumped out of bed Jascha had become a spring platform. He groaned and rolled onto his side. It was four in the morning.

        “Ernest, it’s four. ” Jascha said through the pillow. “Are you okay?”

        “Nope. But it’s semifinals,” Jascha heard the bathroom light turn on, and the sound of Ernest digging through their bag of stuff. “And it’s really, really big, so we need to prepare.”

        “It’s sports. What do you even prepare?” Jascha pulled the blanket over his head.

        “Like, everything. Duh,” Ernest’s tone was mocking. “Haven’t you ever played a sport?”

        “No. I was a music kid.” Jascha curled into a tighter ball. “I went to a music school after fifth grade. Then college for music.”

        “But, like, it was school. There had to be sports.”  Ernest  said as he turned on the shower.

        “I mean, yeah. But like, fake sports. We had...there was a barn that had horses, I think. A hiking club?” Jascha finally gave up on sleep and sat up, his hair matted and on end. “We only played team sports during gym.”

        Ernest looked at him from the bathroom with...pity? Jascha couldn’t tell whether it was horror or pity. “Dude...that’s so fucked up.” He shook his head. “I’d have died. I would not have survived any school ever if I didn’t have soccer. And then, like, track in the spring. Though track sucked.”

        Jascha rubbed his eyes and yawned. Ernest was torturing him with these early mornings. “Why would you do something awful like track?” Jascha looked at him. “Why do you need six hours to get ready for soccer?”

        “I ran track because it took up three hours every afternoon and most weekends. And it helped with soccer.” Ernest started taking off his pajamas so he could get in the shower, and Jascha averted his eyes instinctually. “Anyways, all my friends were on the teams and, most importantly, Victor skipped every single sports requirement ever, starting in seventh grade.”

        Ernest got in the shower but left the bathroom door open. Jascha got out of bed and started picking up the room, though there definitely wasn’t six hours worth of prep to do. Most of what Ernest needed was already in the car. Jascha sat on the floor outside the bathroom door.

        “What do I wear to this game?” He asked. “Is it, like, a formal event? Do I wear jeans?” Jascha felt a wave of anxiety. “Do I need, like...an ID or something?”

        From the bathroom he heard Ernest’s laughter- his genuine, real laughter- and it made up for the early morning. “My dude, it’s a game. Just wear like, normal clothes. Borrow my UChicago sweater.”

        “Your sweater is tight and its sleeves are too short on me.” Jascha got up and dug the sweater out of the bag, pulling it on over his T-shirt. If he rolled up the sleeves it was harder to tell that it was a bit too small for him. It was still pretty tight across the chest.

        “You don’t have to. It’s just vital that you don’t look like you support the other team.”  The water shut off and Ernest emerged, wrapped in a towel. “It looks fine on you.”

        “How do I know if you’re winning?” Jascha already felt confused. “What are the rules? What, uh...what role do you play on the team?” He blushed with embarrassment as Ernest laughed, but smiled despite himself. It was good to see a spark of happy, soccer Ernest again.

        “I’m a forward, usually. Sometimes I play midfield,” Ernest started. He stopped when he saw Jascha’s blank stare. “I, uh, try to kick the ball into the goal. To score points.” Jascha nodded slowly. “Dude, how the fuck have you never even heard of this stuff?”

        “Listen, I started playing violin when I was three. I was good at the violin. I did ballet as my sport. No one ever wanted me to do, like, other things.” Jascha said as he made the bed. “Except piano. They forced me to learn to read books and play the piano. Also math and other school things.”

        Ernest had his jersey on now. Jascha had to bite back laughter at it. It had red stripes on a white background with white shorts. Ernest had his shin guards on under his socks (they had, of all things, little cats on them), and he was putting on his elaborate knee brace.

        “What?” Ernest asked, catching Jascha staring at him.

        “Are the cats part of the uniform?” Jascha asked with a smile.

        “The cats are the most important part of the uniform,” Ernest said seriously. “I wore these socks when we won nationals my freshman year.” He smiled. “Also, I love cats.”

        They headed out to the car and drove back to the university, stopping at a diner for breakfast. Ernest ate a huge meal of toast, eggs, bacon, and pancakes. Jascha just had three cups of black coffee. By the time they made it to the field it was 7:30 AM and cars were already pulling in.

        “Let’s go warm up,” Ernest said as he parked the car.

        “‘Let’s’?” Jascha raised an eyebrow. “I’m not running. I’m wearing jeans.”

        Ernest looked slightly hurt. “Fine. I should stretch first, anyways.”

        They walked down to the field, and with every step Jascha felt more out of place. There were families there, all dressed in athletic clothing supporting either University of Chicago or Tufts. Ernest jogged off towards a few other guys in the same uniform as him, who Jascha assumed were his teammates. He hovered by the sidelines, feeling anxious and oddly exposed. After a couple minutes of zoning out and wishing for more sleep, Jascha noticed that Ernest was waving him over. He walked onto the field, stepping over the white boundary line as if it were a tripwire.

        “Jascha! Come meet some of my team!” Ernest took a few steps towards him, beaming. Jascha smiled awkwardly. Ernest turned back towards the other three guys. “Alright, so these are Lewis, Carson, and you already met Liam at the gym. Guys, this is Jascha. He’s visiting from, uh, Juilliard?” He looked at Jascha for confirmation. Jascha nodded.

        Over the next hour the rest of the team showed up and Ernest was fully absorbed by helping them warm up, leaving Jascha to fend for himself on the sidelines with the girlfriends, families, and friends of the athletes. Occasionally someone would look at him, either in approval of his sweater or in mild disdain, but he was mostly unbothered. He wished he’d brought a book. Apparently it took a long time for Ernest to run through all the stretches, pep talks, and greetings he had to do before the game. He was just glad to see that Ernest had seemingly recovered from last night’s chaos.

        At about 9:30, Ernest left the field and jogged back to Jascha. He took off his varsity jacket and handed Jascha his phone, and for the first time in the past six hours he looked stressed again.

        “Can you hold onto these? And, like...if my dad calls, can you answer it?”

        Jascha took the phone and jacket. “Yeah, no problem.”

        “Cool, dude. Thanks.” Ernest relaxed a little.

        “Hey, uh. How do I know if you win? Or are winning?” Jascha asked quietly so the other, competent soccer fans wouldn’t hear.

        “Dude, you’ll know. Just count goals.” Ernest smiled. “Anyway, we’re gonna win. I’m wearing my cat socks.”

        Jascha smiled back at him nervously. Was a ball going to hit him? How safe was it to be near the sidelines? He didn’t get to ask, because the referee blew a whistle and Ernest ran off back towards the field. After another twenty or so minutes, the teams took what appeared to Jascha to be arbitrary positions on the field. After a moment of stillness, the ref blew the whistle again, and complete chaos broke loose.

        Jascha spent most of the game trying to resist the urge to look away, mostly because he knew how much trouble Ernest had with his knee. Soccer was much more brutal than he expected, considering that Ernest had an injury and was able to keep playing. He counted goals, and could feel the tension build in the crowd as it stagnated at two to two. Ernest had scored one goal, which he cheered for, and the other kid- Liam- scored the other. They’d been ahead until something happened and the ref stopped the game and gave Tufts what looked like a free kick at the goal. After that, things were tied for a while.

        The teams would cycle through their players so that each person got a break, and each time Ernest stepped out Jascha had to fight the urge to go over to him. He figured that this must be what it felt to be a dog when its person went in a store. Periodically, though, Ernest would catch his eye and wave at him, which made him feel better.

        By the end of the second half, both teams were tired and the scoreboards stayed unchanged. Ernest was in again, and he was pushing the offense with two other people that Jascha couldn’t recognize. The crowds started yelling more as the pushed closer to the other goal, and Jascha stood up as they made it into the defense’s box. There were only five minutes left in the half. For every foot lost or gained by the team, there was a chorus of groans or cheers, and Jascha could practically feel the stress and focus radiating from Ernest and the other players. In the last minute, something changed and the crowd erupted into cheers as Ernest kicked the ball past the goalie. Jascha grinned and clapped, beaming when he saw Ernest hugging all of his team members.

        The ref had the two teams shake hands, but after that they all went their separate ways. Ernest broke off from his team and ran towards Jascha, smiling from ear to ear. Jascha nearly fell over as Ernest collided with him at full speed, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug.

        “We did it! We made it to finals!” Ernest shouted joyfully. Ernest was sweaty and disgusting, but he didn’t care. Ernest pulled away from the hug by a few inches so that he could look at Jascha. “We’re going to finals!”

        “You were amazing!” Jascha said with a smile. He and Ernest looked at each other for few seconds. Ernest was radiating joy, and Jascha wanted desperately to kiss him. Instead, they broke off the hug. Ernest ran a hand through his hair awkwardly.

        “I’ll, uh, drive us back to the hotel, drop you off and shower. At 1:00 we’re meeting with the coach to talk, then at 5:00 we have team dinner.” Ernest’s expression darkened. “Did dad call?”

        Jascha looked at the phone. It was just after eleven, and there were no calls. “Not yet.”

        Ernest sighed. “I’ll call him again when we’re back at the hotel. We should head out.”


	21. Great Escapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry makes a plan. Victor stages a rescue. Jascha googles himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks, as always, for getting this far! Your feedback always makes us happy.
> 
> Trigger warnings in this section for: abuse, conversion therapy, reference to institutionalization, and reference to traumatic death.

        Henry didn’t sleep. In fact, he didn’t even move from his spot in front of the door. He could hear the voices of his mother and father, but couldn’t make out the words. He could hear the silence of the woods outside his window and the occasional rustling in the bushes. God, they probably had raccoons again and his dad would set the exterminator on them, just like he did when he was little. He heard his dad’s old records and his mom’s television show. It was almost like it could have been normal.

        Then he heard the doorbell ring. Regardless of who it was, that couldn’t be good. He glanced at the ticking analogue clock on his wall. 11:32PM. It was too late for the press, unless they had a death wish. Maybe it was too late for Alphonse, Henry wasn’t quite sure. He didn’t even know if Alphonse was coming.

        He heard his mother stammer and the heavy footsteps of his father going to the door. He heard scattered explanations and yelling and then the door slammed shut. That wasn’t good. Lawrence Clerval would not yell at Alphonse Frankenstein. That could only mean-- Shit.

        Henry scrambled to his closet. With any luck, it would be right where he left it. He peeled up the old floorboard in the far right corner. A basket with a length of rope tied around the handle and a notebook at beneath a stack of dusty newspapers. It was the perfect secret communication system from his Dickinson phase in 6th grade.  _I’m locked in my room. Appointment with Waldman tomorrow at 10AM._   He wrote and marked the page with the ribbon. Holding onto the rope, he threw it into the third ornamental shrub so Victor couldn’t be caught by the cameras. Now, he just had to hope he would pass by his window.

        Henry sat on his knees and peered just over the windowsill. He saw Victor creeping behind the house, but not looking at the bush. Come on, surely he couldn’t have forgotten their old routine so easily. Now, how to get his attention. He couldn’t yell, obviously, that would be a surefire way to get them both killed. Henry went to his desk and grabbed a pen, then he threw it at Victor’s head. It missed, thankfully, but it did manage to get his attention. Henry felt two tugs on the rope and pulled the basket in.

         _God. What happened? Are you alright?_   Victor’s handwriting was terrible and the dark words ran into each other.

        Henry stretched his shoulders and torso. It was definitely bad, maybe as terrible as the crash. No. He’d dealt with worse. He’ll be okay.  _ Long story. Will tell you later. I’m hurt. Not too bad. Can walk. Why are you here? _

       _I’m going to rescue you._   Henry sighed. It was a reckless, idealistic idea, but at least his old Victor was back.

        _Unless you can unlock my door from there you’re SOL. Are you alone?_   Henry heard Victor swear even from two stories up. Clearly, that had been the wrong question.

        _Agatha and William are with me._ Now it was Henry’s turn to gasp.

        _Are you batshit insane? William’s 11. He shouldn’t be exposed to this_.  Henry threw the basket down with a little more force than he intended to. Before Victor could respond, he pulled it back.  _I’m incredibly relieved to see you. Now I know I’m not alone. But you need to take William home. I’ll be okay_.

_I tried to stop him, but he insisted on coming. Dad said I had to stay with him anyway. Will you? I’m scared, Henry. What if he hurts you more?_   It was approaching midnight and Henry listened out for the telltale click of his parent’s bedroom door. There it was, now they had more time.

        _It’s not as bad as before. I will be okay. Come get me after Waldman. 10:45. I’ll make up some excuse and leave early. Please tell Alphonse. And don’t let him catch you missing_.   It was an imperfect escape plan, to be sure, but it was a plan nonetheless.

        _I can’t let you go to that man. I can’t, Henry._   Victor couldn’t write the name, even after all these years.

        _It’ll be bad, but I know the right things to say. My parents won’t let me out of their sight until I’m in that office._   Henry felt the panic rising in his chest, but he kept it in check. In through his nose, out through his mouth. He knew what to do. It was like an old dance.

      _Okay. I’ll tell dad._   Okay, Victor was on board, this was good. Great, even.

        _What does Alphonse know?_

        _Only that they have you. He thinks going to the police is best._   Oh. Oh no. That wouldn’t be good. Though, technically this was a kidnapping. He was an adult and didn’t have to do the things his parents said anymore. Henry could imagine the his father’s wrath when he inevitably was released without punishment. A chill surged through his body. He might just shoot him and that would be the end of everything and he’d never have to deal with it again.

        No. His life was worth fighting for.

         _Try to get him to stop, if you can. My father’s powerful and on their side. It might just make it worse. Meet me by the cafe near Waldman’s house. The one with the pink sign. Are you alright?_  The sense of calm that permeated around Victor was almost unnerving, but it was better than panic.

        _I’m scared, but alright. I’ll meet you, or get dad to. I don’t know if he’ll let me come._  Henry sighed. It would probably be better if he didn’t come, in case things went wrong, but he desperately wanted to hug Victor and feel him in his arms.

_That’s okay. We’ll make it work. Hurry home so you’re not caught._   Henry stared at the page for a few moments deciding what to say. There was always the possibility this could go horribly wrong and then he’d never have the chance to say it.  _ I love you. _

_I’ll hurry. I love you too._   With two tugs of the rope, Victor was gone and Henry was left alone.

        He flipped through their old notebook until light started coming through his window. They started it when they were eleven years old. That’s when it had started getting bad. Before that, Henry had a normal life with normal image-obsessed parents. Henry’s fingers hovered over one line from when he was thirteen. _Why does he hate me? I’ve only ever tried my best_.  Victor didn’t have an answer, neither did Henry; even after all this time. Well, he supposed he lived with an impossible standard. So, every flaw, anything undesirable, needed to be hidden. They needed to be changed.

        At 8AM sharp, his father pounded on the door. Henry threw the book in the basket and pushed it under his bed and not a moment too soon. Lawrence unlocked the door and took in the sight of the bedroom. “Take a shower. You are disgusting,” he sneered. Henry hadn’t expected Lawrence to follow him to the bathroom.

        “Umm, aren’t you going to let me...you know...use the shower,” Henry had a bad feeling he knew where this was going.

        “You obviously can’t be trusted unless you’re confined and I can’t lock this door from the outside,” he said it as if it were the most normal, non-psychotic thing he’s ever heard. Henry knew this game, but he also knew how to win. He just needed to completely detach himself from all his emotions; easier said than done.

        It took a moment to steel himself, but he forced his fingers to work like a machine. His father wanted him to twitch and squirm, so he wouldn’t, plain and simple. His father didn’t get to win. So he showered, paying close attention to his wounds. He looked way worse than he thought he did last night. His bruises turned almost black and it ached to move his torso at all. His right arm was lined with finger marks where his father grabbed him. His stitches were also completely ruined and the wound reopened. He’d have to ask Ernest to fix him up again. Well, that was, if Ernest ever wanted to see him again. He doubted it. It must have been traumatizing for him to watch.

        Henry got out of the shower and put on some of his dad’s old cloths. God, he looked straight out of a sitcom, save for the bruises. Without a word, Lawrence looked at the center top drawer. Henry didn’t need to be told twice. It had been a long time, but his fingers hadn’t lost the memory of applying the makeup to his marked skin.

        “You know this is evil. So, why do you do it?” Henry half expected to be hit again.

        “I never wanted to. You drove me to this,” Of course. This was all his fault. Because at the age of eleven he happened to be looking for his father at a big, scary party. How dare he.

        Eventually, Lawrence had to go to work and Meredith was left to drive Henry to...hell. She was driving him straight to hell.

        “Now, I want you to remember what your father said last night. If you really try hard and put your heart into it, maybe this therapy could help you,” her singsong voice grated on every last one of Henry’s nerves. “Dr. Waldman is a very nice man and it would do you well to open up to him.” They pulled into his driveway. “Just remember that I love you no matter what.” Something is her voice sounded strange. “I’ve always loved you.”

        Henry silently approached the steps and when he rang the doorbell, his mother drove away. Thank god. After talking to Victor, everything that could have possibly gone wrong rang in his head. His mother sticking around for the session definitely ranked high on that list.

        Waldman answered the door and Henry suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to vomit. No. No, he had to keep himself under control. It was only for an hour. He could do this. He met Waldman’s beady little eyes and his confidence wavered.

        “Henry, my boy, it’s been such a long time. I’m so happy to see you again. Come in, make yourself feel at home,” he said. The house was smaller and less well decorated than his parents’ or Victor’s. He remembered his parents mocking it on many a car trip. He sat on the blue sofa and folded his hands studiously in his lap as he waited for the questions to start.

        “How has school been? I’ve heard you made it into a very prestigious grad program,” he sat down across from Henry with a cup of tea.

        “Yes. For poetry,” his voice was even and calm, the type of voice he learned from Alphonse.

        “And what are you going to do with that?” Henry’s second least favorite question.

        “I’m going to be a professor, sir,” he could keep it together. He had to.

        “Good luck with that. Tenure track is so hard to find these days. You don’t see me working in a university,” Waldman laughed without joy.

        _That’s because you’re a fraud_ _,_ Henry wanted to say, but he kept himself in line. “That’s unfortunate.”

        “Well, yes yes yes, enough with my problems. Let’s talk about yours.” He couldn’t avoid it forever.

        “Of course,” Henry focused on releasing the tension in his shoulders and focused it into his lats. He was allowed to take up space.

        “So, you remember some of the exercises I’ve asked you to do in the past, right? Or would you rather recap some things we had talked about before first.” Oh wonderful, he was given an out. Hopefully, he could just talk about his father all session instead of actually delving into his sexuality.

        “Let’s recap,” Henry made a show of being embarrassed. “It’s been a long time since I tried your exercises.”

        “Very well. I know we’ve done this before, but it’ll help ease you into the process. Tell me about your childhood,” he took out a pad of paper and a pen.

        “Well, I had a pretty good childhood, for the most part. My parents were kind and loving until I was eleven. I spent way more time with my mom, since my dad was away doing politics stuff. But you know, I always identified with her more anyway,” Henry remembered when his mother actually did things. She was an artist and enjoyed painting landscapes.

        “That could be the start of it.  So in your mind there's something that says, 'I'm like my mom, but dad's over there, he's different from me,' so there hasn't been that gender-affirming process,” Henry nodded and played along. How this man ever got a psych degree was far beyond him.

        “When puberty kicks in, those natural needs for masculinity become sexualised. Suddenly older men want to have sex with you, and it's pretty intoxicating. That's what's led you down the line of homosexuality,” Waldman seemed pretty fucking convinced with his batshit theory.

        “Older men have never wanted to have sex with me,” Henry said. He let his eyes fall naturally on Waldman.

        “Not that you know of. That doesn’t mean it’s not happening.” Henry felt sick to his stomach again. No. These were lies. They were not real. “Part of the problem is that the men who ‘fall in love with’ or have sex with you are just as sick as you are, so obviously they can’t complete you the same way a woman can.” Obviously, that made total sense. Henry had to force himself to keep breathing. “The solution would be to have sex with a heterosexual man, but no heterosexual man is going to want to have sex with you.” Yeah. No shit. That was how sexuality worked.

        “What am I supposed to do about this?” Henry asked. It was open ended enough to let Waldman go down any deranged path he wanted to.

        “Well, I’m glad you asked. You see, what we’re trying to do is replace your need for homosexual sex with healthy, platonic masculine contact, hence the exercises. What we really want to do is improve your relationship with your own masculinity,” God, here they go. The exercises were the very bane of Henry’s existence. “So, have you picked up a contact sport? I think we suggested rugby last time.”

        “I tried for a little bit, but it was...you know. Kinda terrifying,” It wasn’t technically a lie. His parents did sign him up for a team when they heard it might “help.” After his first game he looked as fucked up as if his dad had gotten to him. He found that he could easily dodge practice and games because his parents both never checked up with him and they couldn’t distinguish rugby bruises from their own.

        “You might want to consider picking it up again. It promotes healthy, platonic contact between heterosexual men,” Henry thought back to the conversations in the locker room. There was nothing heterosexual about that. “Moving right along, because there’s not much we can do about that right now. When was the last time you had prolonged contact with another man?”

        Henry had to think. It had been the morning with Victor, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell Waldman that. He was in control. He was totally in control. “A friend gave me a back massage after the crash.” Great answer. It was vague enough that he could infer whatever he wanted and Henry could give him the correct answer to his next question.

        “How did that make you feel?”

        “I felt aroused,” Henry said without further explanation. He learned very quickly as a kid, that the answer ‘I felt nothing’ was unacceptable because it meant he was lying. Because clearly since he was gay, every and all men were a source for lust. He watched Waldman jot down a line of notes. What an idiot.

        “That’s okay. The more you are able to fight temptation, the stronger you will become,” Waldman looked up from his notes and straight into Henry’s eyes. “And the last technique?”

        Henry took another deep breath. “I had looked...at myself,” he said, feigning shame. “And I felt aroused.” At one time, Henry thought he was vain because he actually liked how his body looked. He was neither muscular nor well built, like a lot of the guys he’s seen, but he enjoyed the soft feel of his skin and the freckles on his face. He looked like himself and he did indeed think he was beautiful; like a beam of summer sunlight. Well, he was until the accident, but he would grow used to it. He had to.

        “I would be surprised if you hadn’t. It is natural and I’m very proud of you for giving it a shot. Do you remember the exercise with the light?” Henry nodded. “Great, I want you to close your eyes imagine a glowing ball of light over your genitals when you get aroused. The brighter the ball of light, the stronger the arousal. Now, I’m going to start speaking to you and I want you to picture that ball of light and move it into your chest,” Henry nodded for the last time and closed his eyes.

        Of course, he didn’t do the exercise partially because it was evil and manipulative, partially because there was nothing less arousing than Doctor fucking Waldman. Instead, he pictured Victor in all of his impassioned glory. He would get to go home soon. It would be okay. There was only half an hour left of this hell. He could keep it under control.

        “ I think you're a brave man. I think you're really strong in terms of being willing to look at your life and who you really are, and you also look as if you look after yourself in terms of your body. How do you feel being affirmed in this way by another man?" Waldman asked. Henry just stammered. “That’s exactly what I thought,” and he scribbled more on his notepad before looking him in the eyes again. Henry’s resolve had started to fray and he was sure he wore it on his face. “It makes sense. It’s one of the reasons we teach fathers to hug their sons or else another man will.”

        If Lawrence ever tried to hug him, Henry might actually lose it. Neither god nor Alphonse Frankenstein would be able to bring him back.

        “I’m really proud of you, Henry,” Waldman said. “I’m glad you decided to finally seek treatment again after you became an adult and I’m encouraged by your progress. Especially because now I know for sure you aren’t being pressured by your parents.”

        “What?” Henry asked.

        “Well, technically speaking,” Waldman shifted awkwardly from side to said, “I can’t really do anything unless you want it.”

        “Oh, well then, I’m out,” Henry stood up and walked towards the door. Why on earth hadn’t the thought occurred to him earlier?

        “But Henry, you were doing so well. Think of what you could accomplish,” Waldman chased after him.

        “Oh, I know what I can accomplish. Fuck you. You’re a terrible person.” Henry slammed the door behind him. Black fire burned in his chest again.

         He let it smolder as he walked to the cafe. It was a sweet little place with pastel signage. Henry was about to buy a lavender coffee, like he always did, before he realized he didn’t have any money.  He desperately wanted to be alone so he could scream and cry and let the rage out of his chest. He saw a clock on the wall. Half an hour before this session ended, and fifteen minutes before Alphonse would pick him up. He could keep calm. He could totally keep it together. His ears hyper focused on the ticking of the clock. Colors started to blur together and Henry could make out human voiced, but not what they were saying. Then, a young woman tapped on his shoulder.

        “Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but are you Henry Clerval?” Henry stared at her. She had blond hair pulled into a high ponytail which made her almost look like Elizabeth.

        “Umm, yeah?” Henry asked.

        “I’m Catherine Meadowside, investigative reporter for the CMV news. Can you tell me what’s been happening with you and your father?” she took out a pink notebook and cocked her head. Thirteen minutes left before the Frankensteins could get him. That was enough time.

        “You know, yeah. I can. I really, really can.”

        Henry told her everything and desperately hoped that Alphonse wouldn’t be late.

 

* * *

  

        The pale pull of a weak November sun accompanied a steaming Alphonse and silent Victor as they drove. Even as the low drone of NPR offered a half-hearted attempt to cut through the suffocating tension which filled the car, Victor tuned it out, choosing instead to follow the smears of telephone wires passing by the window. He didn’t need to look, after all, to know that his father’s grip on the wheel was purposefully loose or that his hair was standing on end from his constant messing with it.

        When the car came to a red light, his father hit the breaks forcefully.

        The swell of NPR grew softer as a segment on soccer related injuries transitioned into a think piece on the science behind child prodigies. Victor leaned over and turned up the sound. They were discussing the recent death of Jascha  Simonis, the golden boy of Juilliard. He turned it down again.

        His father sighed heavily, beginning to drum his fingers against the wheel as pedestrians crossed endlessly before the car.

        “It’s green.” Victor offered unhelpfully.

        “Yeah, I see that Victor.” His father snapped.

        Victor shrugged and let the car lapse back to silence. He checked the dash clock. 10:30. They were running early.

        Good thing too, Victor thought vaguely as the light clicked back to red and his father pounded the steering wheel.

        “You know,” Victor said, “hitting things won’t make the light change any faster.”

        His father didn’t reply, but Victor could see his jaw tighten a fraction. Under normal circumstances, the movement would have been terrifying. The kind, gentle, diplomatic Alphonse Frankenstein simply did not show such emotions as anger, especially around his dear, darling sons and if he did, well, it was a generally a nasty prelude to punishment. At that moment, however, Victor found himself in complete damnation of the concept of consequences. The blissful, fiery feeling of being totally himself had yet to leave him and, unlike years past, he didn’t have to cling to it or hammer it down to make it stay. It was a consuming force. It wouldn’t last forever, of course. It never did. But, fuck, it was sweet to sleep within a controlled burn for a while.

        By the time he and William had returned from Henry’s home the night before, armed with a plan and worried resolve, his father was already sitting on the couch, waiting for them. He’d met them with harsh words and visible distress, furious and afraid and frustrated and spouting more useless analogies about Victor’s fragileness and impulsiveness and strangeness. This time, however, it was almost alarmingly easy to tune him out.

        To wrestle control away from his father in a conversation was a herculean task even under average circumstances, so much so that Victor could only remember one other occurrence in which he’d managed to ‘win’ a fight with the man. (That win had earned Victor the right to pick out his own clothing for a family gathering at the age of ten and he was not exaggerating when he said he’d ridden the adrenaline high for weeks after the event.) Usually, Victor’s passion ran far too wild, far too fast to ever think of maintaining a proper argument with Alphonse Frankenstein. When Victor had spoken, therefore, he had known it was only the eerie evenness of his tone and the firmness of his stance that had thrown his father off enough to make the other falter.

        “We’re going to get Henry from therapy tomorrow. I’m driving with you.” Without giving the other man time to respond, Victor had ushered William out of the living room and to the upstairs landing.

        “It’s green again.”

        “Yes, thank you.” His father hissed between clenched teeth. He eased the car back into drive.

        A continuation of silence. Victor reached for the radio again.

        “I’d rather you kept that off.”

        Victor clicked the play and spun the volume up.

        “ A tragedy, truly, to lose such an inspirational and groundbreaking young man. And in such a horrific manner too, I-”

His father flipped the dial back to mute. “Victor-”

        “Dad.”

        Thickened silence.

        “What do you think you’re accomplishing here?” The older man finally asked. Anger laced his words, but exhaustion served as their base and drive.

        Victor thought it over. “It’s less what I’m accomplishing and more that I don’t have much to lose.”

        “Oh, trust me, Victor, you have plenty more to lose.” The unspoken  I could take so much more from you  hung in the air, stifling.

        “Not really.” Victor focused on the passing store fronts, searching for the telltale pastel of the Cafe Ricota. “I mean, the only thing I want is to see Henry safely home and we’re on our way to do that so.” He shrugged. “You can’t take that from me now. Unless you want to turn the car around and abandon Henry to his father’s wrath.”

        His father glared at the road like it had run over his dog. “You’re being-”

        “Immature? Unreasonable? A dick?” Victor guessed.

        “...Unreasonable.”

        “Got it in two.”

        “I just don’t see what you’re trying to do here.” His father glanced to him for the first time since leaving the house. His normally unreadable gaze was as sharp as razor blades. “You went against my orders from last night, put yourself, your little brother,  and  Henry in danger through your immature actions, yet you think you have the right to demand that I listen to you now.”

        “Well…” Despite the utter blasphemy of his words, Victor’s voice kept calm. “You see, it’s less that I think I’m deserving of your attention and more that you’re wrong and I’m right.”

        “Victor-”

        “Henry said it himself, calling the police would have ended horribly. We’re better off just listening to what he wants to do.”

        “That’s not the point.” His father stressed. “This is why you can’t be trusted to be on your own, this is why I’m having to-”

        “Oh, I’m not going to the psych ward.” Victor interjected breezily.

        “...Pardon.”

        “I don’t need to and it wouldn’t be beneficial to me to be put into that kind of isolating scenario again. I think we should consider outpatient instead. I’d be willing to do that and stay at home in the meanwhile. Maybe I can even work on trying to get closer with William. He’s actually pretty cool for an eight year old.”

        Outside, Victor began to recognize the buildings and flowerbeds. 10:48.

        “I,” It was unnerving to hear his father stutter, “Victor, what in the devil has gotten into you?” He sounded mistified.

        Victor considered the question. “You know?” He replied. “I think Henry did.”

        A violet and green sign caught his attention and Victor heaved a sigh of relief. 10:49. They’d made it in time. Conversation thoroughly derailed, his father pulled the car into the nearest parking spot. Victor barely waited for the vehicle to stop rolling before stepping out.

        Henry was easy to spot, holding a coffee mocha something in one hand and speaking, rather confidently, to a posh looking woman. Victor approached slowly, trying not to interrupt.

        “And this went on for how many years again?” The woman seemed slightly sick. She clutched a notepad tightly in her left hand, though she was no longer taking notes. A reporter?         

        “Since I was eleven.” Henry replied steadily. He glanced to one side and Victor could see the second he saw him by the flash in his amber eyes.

        “One moment.” He said hurriedly to the reporter as he pushed away from the table.

        Victor couldn’t control his grin as he took the final steps up to meet Henry and pulled him into a tight embrace. “You’re okay!”

        “Debatably.” Henry winced and Victor stepped back, trying to look him over. A small bit of panic welled within him as he noted that, yes, Henry was indeed wearing makeup over one cheek. Without thought, Victor brushed one hand over it and let it rest against Henry’s cheek.

        “You scared me half to death.”

        “Like you’re one to talk.” Henry replied. A weak smile lingered across his face, half relief, half reprehension. “Scrounging around in my bushes again, huh? And with your little brother in tow. What were you even thinking, Victor?”

        “I was reliving the good old days.”

        “Something like that.” Henry leaned into his touch with a desperate kind of hesitation.

        “Boys,” his father called, “I hate to break up the happy reunion, but didn’t you say your mother was picking you up at 11:00?”

        Victor let his hand slide from Henry’s cheek. “Shit, yeah. You ready to go home?”

        Henry hesitated again. Cast a dark gaze up the street. “Yeah.” He finally breathed as he reached to grab Victor’s hand. “Let’s go home.”

 

* * *

  

        They made it back to the hotel by 11:30. The minute they were back in the room, Ernest took out his phone and dialed. Jascha stood beside him, close enough so that he would be able to make out both sides of the conversation. With each unanswered ring of the phone, he felt his chest get tighter. On the fifth ring, someone picked up.

        “Ernest?” Alphonse said.

        “Dad,” Ernest’s voice trembled. “Hey, uh. Any word on Henry?”

        “It’s handled.” In the background Jascha could make out two other voices, and the sound of traffic. “I’m driving right now. Can you call me tonight?”

        “Is he okay?” Ernest clutched the phone with white knuckles. “Dad, please, you gotta tell me. Is Henry okay?”

        “I…” Alphonse sighed. “I believe he will be. We’ll know more later.”

        “Okay.” Ernest took a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, sounds good.”

        “Everything is under control, Ernest.” Alphonse’s voice was slow and calm. “How was your game? It was semifinals today, right? I’m sorry that William and I couldn’t be there.”

        Ernest’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “We won. It was, like, really close. But we made it. The big one is tomorrow.”

        “I’m sure you’ll do well. I’ll ask Will if he wants to go,” Alphonse said warmly.

        “That’d be rad!” Ernest smiled. “I miss him,” Ernest’s face fell a bit, and his tone grew serious. “Tell Henry that I’m sorry. For everything. And I’ll come visit him after the game, if he can have visitors. Or wants to, like, see me. If he doesn’t, that’s cool too.”

        “I’ll let him know,” Alphonse said gently. “Ernest, I want to talk to you more about what happened the other night.”

        Ernest shifted, chewing on the inside of his cheek nervously. “Uh...yup. Sure. I, like, have team stuff in, like, an hour, though. And I need to shower and stuff-”

        “We don’t have to now. I’ll call you later.” Alphonse interjected. “I’ll see you soon.”

        “Yeah. Okay, bye.” Ernest hung up quickly. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. “I’m gonna, like. Shower now.” Jascha nodded.

        Ernest left the bathroom door open as he showered, but he didn’t ask Jascha to sit in the bathroom with him. He took this as a good sign. Jascha lay on the bed instead, put on headphones, and played the Vitali on the small CD player. He closed his eyes, and focused on his left hand, trying to get the fingerings right on the phantom violin. He botched one of the chords, and restarted the recording. After messing up that same chord four more times, he gave up and just let the CD play. He opened his eyes as he felt Ernest lay beside him on the bed. He felt his body grow warm and comfortable as Ernest settled in against him, draping one arm loosely over his chest. He paused the music and took off his headphones.

        “Time to go?” Jascha asked. The digital clock said that it was about 12:15.

        Ernest nodded. “Yeah, just about. Are you gonna stay here?”

        Jascha thought for a moment. “Can you drop me off at the library?”

        “Yeah, dude. Do you want me to pick you up before dinner, or after?” Ernest sat up and stretched. “Also, do you, like, have money for food?”

        “I don’t.” Jascha got up. “Can I borrow some? Also, after dinner is fine. I have some, uh, research I want to work on.”

        Ernest walked over to where he’d left his backpack, rummaging through it until he found his wallet. When he returned, he handed Jascha sixty dollars. “Dinner will probs end at, like, seven. And I can pick you up at eight. Library closes at nine on Saturdays, so I’ll definitely be there before then.”

        Jascha looked at the money. “Ernest. This is way more than I need to feed myself.” He tried to give him back forty, but Ernest didn’t take it.

        “Listen, this way you have some left if you ever, like, get stranded somewhere and I’m not around. It’s not like you have any way to call me, either.” Ernest furrowed his brow. “I was supposed to buy you a phone, right? I remember saying that.”

        “Please don’t. That’s so much money.” Jascha reluctantly pocketed the bills.

        “No, dude, it’s like pretty cheap. How much are they, like a hundred? Anyway, I’d feel better if you had even, like, a track phone or something. Just in case.” Ernest smiled at him. “I’ll pick one up between lunch and dinner.”

        “You really, really don’t need-” Jascha started.

        “Nope. Gonna.” Ernest interrupted. He pulled on a sweater and his sneakers. “Let’s go.”

        Ernest spoke in what seemed to be tongues on the way to the library. He basically gave a minute by minute run down of every single thing that had happened during the game; all the mistakes, successes, surprises; everything. And Jascha smiled and nodded, even though he only understood maybe a third of the words he said. He just felt happy that he seemed happy.

        Once he was in the library, his mood shifted into a simmering combination of fear, excitement, and motivation. He still had Ernest’s CD player, so all he had to do was borrow a CD from the music section to play in the background. He took a sheet of paper from one of the printers, found a discarded pencil on an empty desk, and wandered until he found the public computers. Did he need an ID to use them? He’d forgotten to ask Ernest for his. He pressed the monitor’s power button and waited as the machine dialed up.

        He cranked the volume up. It was a piece he felt entirely indifferent to- a Mozart flute concerto- and bounced his knee nervously as he waited for the internet to load. After about five minutes, the little text bar in the search engine blinked at him menacingly. He took a deep breath.  Everyone looked themselves up, right? Just to see what’s out there? He tied his hair up in a top knot nervously. Anything to stall. The flute piece didn’t help take his mind off things, either. Breathe, he told himself. It’s not like he’d find anything he wasn’t prepared for. He knew he was dead, and that he was made out of other dead people. You really can’t get much worse than that.

        He decided to start small. He looked up Ernest, just to see what would come up. He saw various pages about soccer games, and a few school articles. Apparently the UChicago soccer team had a website, and his smile was on the front page. Jascha kept the soccer team’s page open on one tab and opened another. After another minute’s hesitation, he typed.  Jascha Simonis , he entered into the search bar. He took a breath and hit “ _go_.”

        He was immediately met with hundreds of articles on various news, magazine, and music sites. He had to take a minute and go back to the soccer page, just to prepare himself. He’d expected maybe a few sites, nothing more. Something similar to the fifteen-odd entries on Ernest. After gathering his spirits, he switched tabs.

_ Freak mystery: Boy’s body stolen _

         _Chicago PD: No New Leads on the Simonis Case_

_         Prodigy killed in accident, NYC _

_         Candlelight Vigil for Juilliard Senior _

_         Chicago Academy for the Arts Mourns Alum _

        There were hundreds more. He had to take a break. He went back to the soccer site. It didn’t help. God, he hated the flute. Why did he pick the worst instrument to listen to? He had to get up and walk, if for no reason than to find music that actually calmed him down. He couldn’t bear listening to any of the CDs he was actually on, but he grabbed a New York Philharmonic recording of Beethoven’s fifth. This always suited him when he was upset. It had the intensity he needed in order to keep looking at the search results. He ditched the flute concerto back at the return desk. He returned to his computer, and returned to the results.

        He decided to open one of the news articles. He figured that the Juilliard Journal would be more detailed than the others, since they tended not to be too overly sensational and was his own school. He clicked the link to the article, _“_ _ Jascha Simonis: Beloved Senior’s Last Concert _ _”_ chewing on the eraser of the pencil nervously.

        It was way harder to read than he thought it would be. Mostly because, since it was written for the school, they’d actually gotten people who sort of knew him to talk about him. He couldn’t recall precisely who they were, but he assumed they were his friends. Mostly they talked about how much they’d miss him, or what a tragedy it was that he’d died so suddenly. They didn’t even say how he died; just that it’d been an accident in downtown NYC on October 25, 2006.

        Jascha finally worked up the emotional capacity to open one of the actual news websites. It was NPR, and apparently his death and obituary had been a big deal. He opened it up and immediately closed the tab. It had a video in it. For a brief second, behind the play button, he’d seen a woman holding a tissue, talking to some news reporter. The woman had long brown hair, tied loosely in a bun, and the exact same nose as Jascha. He knew, somehow, that this was an interview with his mother. After drawing several measured breaths, he reopened the tab.

        He couldn’t bring himself to actually read the article carefully. Apparently there’d been a drunk truck driver. The story was mostly about his musical career, and a call to action to end drunk driving. He felt his head hurt and his palms sweat, and a part of him desperately wanted to play the video. The other part screamed at him to shut off the computer and pretend he’d never looked into it. He decided he would come back to it later. He found another news site which had an on-site reporter. He figured that this one would at least explain more about his death.

        The reporter was a young woman, and the time stamp was October 25, 11:36 PM. She was standing outside of a hospital. He took a deep breath and hit play.

“ _Tragic update on accident on Columbus Avenue as top-ranked Juilliard student Jascha Simonis is pronounced dead on arrival to the Mount Sinai Hospital. According to emergency responders, Simonis was responsive and alert when they arrived to the scene. The cause of death has been declared to be a disorder called ‘_ _ traumatic rhabdomyolysis _ _,’ A.K.A crush syndrome due to-_ ”

Jascha hit pause. He knew enough. He knew too much. He closed all the tabs and wrote the date “ _Oct. 25_ ” on his sheet of paper, along with the location of the accident and the name of the disease. He took a breath and was surprised by how normal he felt. He’d died in a car accident. Easy. His mom was still alive, which was pretty great. He hadn’t really remembered having parents until now. He wondered about his dad, and the friends of his at Juilliard. Rhabdomyolysis was a pretty cool name for a disease. Maybe he’d google that one later. There was a computer in Ernest’s room he could probably use, when they inevitably returned to the frat. He could also just ask Ernest about it, since he knew things about medicine.

        He got up and stretched, and realized that it was already after three. He’d managed to spend just over two hours working up the energy to read only two articles, and he felt like he learned next to nothing. He thought he should be panicking, but instead he felt completely fine; a determined calm. He didn’t feel hungry at all, but he figured he should probably go find food. He’d eat, come back to the library and play some more music, then maybe go out and find dinner. It was a normal day. Ernest would come get him, and Jascha would let him talk about soccer, and they’d go to bed, and he definitely would not have any more dreams about screaming women, crunching metal, or not being able to feel his legs.


	22. Hurt and Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry likes figure skating. Victor is dumb. Jascha is terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with us so far! Kudos and comments make our day!  
> Trigger warnings for this chapter are: descriptions of panic attacks and internalized homophobia.

        The air in the car was thick with electricity. Henry’s head still buzzed from his conversation with Catherine Meadowside and his chest still felt like it as full to bursting. He was vaguely aware that Victor chose to sit in the back seat with him and was holding his hand, but it was painful to focus on sensations that were happening to his own body. Instead, he counted the light posts as the car passed by.

        Henry had taken one look at Alphonse and decided he wanted to crawl in a hole and die. His hair was a mess and the dark circles under his eyes made him look like Victor. Even as they drove home, his grip didn’t relax on the steering wheel. His driving was less than graceful and Henry lurched forward whenever they had to stop at a traffic light.

        Victor rubbed sweet circles into Henry’s knuckles. It seemed like the only thing that tethered him to his body. The tender gentleness made him feel ill. He didn’t deserve it. He put everyone he loved in danger just by being around them. Henry didn’t want to exist anymore so he pulled his hand away. He wished he could become poetry and dissolve into the air.

        Everything still buzzed and felt like static, except it wasn’t real. Hazy fog drift into his vision and smothered his nose and mouth. He could hear Victor making some protest and Alphonse hushing him, but it was like watching it on a movie screen. Henry didn’t move when they pulled into the driveway of the Frankenstein house. He saw Victor’s face in front of the window, but Alphonse waved him away. He protested again and was sent inside. 

        Alphonse slowly opened the door and undid his seat belt. His voice was soft and low, like running water, but Henry couldn’t hear what he was saying. He put a hand on his elbow to ease him out of the car and everything snapped back into clarity.

        “Henry, we’re going to go to the house now. Can you come with me to my study?” Alphonse tried to hold eye contact, but Henry glanced away.

        “Yeah. Yeah, I think I can do that.” His voice was rough, as if he had been screaming. His limbs felt heavy as he walked and Alphonse had to help him every single step of the way until he placed Henry in the chair.

        “How do you feel, Henry?” He no longer seemed stressed and terrified like he did in the car.

        “Dead,” Henry whispered and immediately tensed his arms and shoulders. He hadn’t meant to say it, but now that he had, he felt the energy in the room shift. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It began to come out in sobs. Henry clamped his hands around his ears and brought his head to his knees.

        Alphonse slowly rose from his desk and knelt in front of him. “Whatever for?” His voice lightened and controlled worry seeped back in.

        “I’m sorry for putting Ernest in danger. I’m sorry for putting Victor and William in danger,” He said in between sobs and gasps for air. “No one’s safe. No one’s safe if they’re around me.”

        “No. That’s not true,” Alphonse rested a hand on Henry’s knee. “We are safe. You are safe. I’m not going to anything happen to you or anyone else.”

        Henry just cried harder. “I need to...I need to leave. I can’t...I just can’t,” he was hyperventilating and there was nothing he could do about it. “I can’t put Victor in danger. If my father ever found him…”

        “Henry, can you look me in the eyes please?” Alphonse asked, his even voice wrapping around Henry like a blanket. His eyes were dark and calm. He felt like he was gently being brought back to earth. “I promise. I promise I will keep you safe, but I need you to stay here until I can get everything sorted out. Can you do that?”

        Henry nodded feebly. “Thank you. For everything. I don’t know what I would have done…”

        “There’s no need to thank me. It’s what anyone would have done,” Alphonse smiled and stood up, encouraging Henry to come with him. “I love you and you’ve done countless great things for this family.” Henry fell into Alphonse’s embrace. He ran a hand through his hair and rocked him gently. “We’ll figure this out.” After a moment of comfortable silence, Alphonse went back behind his desk.

        “Is there anything you need, Henry?” He asked.

        “Are you...are you going anywhere tomorrow?” Henry clasped his hands together.

        “I was going to take William to Ernest’s soccer game.” That was clearly not the question Alphonse had expected.

        “Can I come with you?”

        “Henry, you’re hurt. I really don’t think that would be the best idea. You need rest to heal,” Alphonse’s eyebrows knit together with worry.

        “I just need something normal to happen to me,” Henry forced himself to make eye contact.

        “Henry, really. It’s a wonder you haven’t…”

        “Please, Mr. Frankenstein. Please,” Alphonse’s expression softened.

        “Alright. But only if you promise to take care of yourself. Now, I have a sneaking suspicion my boys might be waiting for you.”

        When Henry left the office, he almost hit Victor and William with the door. Alphonse appeared over his shoulder and gave his sons _the look_ , but they didn’t seem to notice.

        “Uncle Henry, you’re alive!” William said as he wrapped his arms around Henry’s ribs. He smiled even as he made a noise of pain.

        “William, you need to be gentle with Uncle Henry. He’s been through a lot,” Alphonse smiled despite himself.

        “Oh, I’m sorry,” William stepped away. “Victor told me he wants to spend time with you, but do you want to read some poetry with me later? I got a really cool book from the library.”

        “Yeah bud, that sounds really fun,” Henry smiled and eyed Victor.

        “Awesome! See you in a bit,” and William bounded away towards his room. Alphonse quietly shut the door to his study and Henry and Victor were left alone.

        “Is it okay if I touch you?” Victor asked.

        Henry thought for a moment and Waldman flashed in his head before he chased him away. “Yes. Please.”

        Victor pulled him flush against his chest into a hug. He twined his arms around Henry’s shoulders and buried his face in his hair. Henry grabbed the back of Victor’s shirt and hid his face in the crook of his neck. Even though he tried desperately to hold them back, the tears started coming again and they didn’t stop.

        “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Nothing’s going to hurt you,” he stroked the back of Henry’s neck. “Let’s get you upstairs and cleaned up, yeah?” Old routines died hard.

        Henry nodded and let Victor lead him up the stairs. Walking didn’t hurt, like it did after the accident, but he still felt like he was being pressed down by lead weights. Victor took the stairs slowly and let Henry lean against him for support. When they finally got to the bathroom, Victor sat Henry on the edge of the tub.

        “Hey, I’m going to grab you some clothes. I’ll be back in a sec,” Victor whispered as he held his hand. Henry nodded and tightened his grip before letting go.

        It was terrible being in the bathroom by himself. The bright lights hurt his eyes and he couldn’t help but look at himself in the mirror. He looked like someone tried to murder him. There were bags the size of the Holy Roman Empire under his eyes and his hair was sticking up from where he had run his hands through it. The cut on his nose looked as horrid as ever and the makeup on his jaw was beginning to come off.

        “Okay, okay,” Victor entered the bathroom with all the supplies he would need to patch Henry up. “First off, let’s get all this gunk off you.” He turned on the faucet and waited for the water to warm up. He wet the washcloth and tested it on his wrist before he turned to Henry. “Is that okay?” Henry had been inconsistent with it in the past. Sometimes he couldn’t bear to look at the marks on his own skin.

        “It’s okay. I’m sorry,” Henry whispered as Victor began to remove the makeup from his face. The warmth of the cloth and the gentleness of his touch made some of his fear dissolve, like sugar in water.

        “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he cupped Henry’s cheek with his free hand and let his thumb slide over the bruise. Victor sighed and moved on to washing Henry’s arms. There was makeup there too, hiding the angry, red fingermarks. The feeling of Victor’s fingers on his inner wrist made Henry want to melt away into sunshine.

        “I just don’t understand, “ Victor said, his eyebrows furrowing. “I have done so many horrible things and Dad has never once hit me, even if I deserved it.”

        “Alphonse is a good man,” Henry said simply.

        “It doesn’t take a good man to not beat his son.” There was nothing Henry could say to that.

        He peered down at his arms. They somehow looked better than he expected to. The marks were fading and other than a few small cuts from his father’s nails, there didn’t seem like much was going on.

        “Okay, can I do your chest now?” Victor asked, placing the dirty cloth on the countertop. Henry nodded and pressed his forehead into Victor’s.

        “Is it bad?” he asked, fingers slowly undoing the buttons of Henry's shirt.

        “I think it’s pretty bad,” Henry placed a hand on Victor’s shoulder and started when he pulled away.

        “I...Henry...how?” Victor stood halfway across the bathroom with both his hands covering his mouth, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Victor Frankenstein, who had reanimated the dead from scraps, was shocked at this?

        Henry raised his eyes to the mirror and, yeah, it was pretty bad. It kind of hurt when he breathed and there was some pretty noticeable swelling, but it was nothing he hadn’t endured before. “I don’t know,” he said. “Worse things have happened.”

        “I’m...I’m going to...I’m…” Victor sputtered.

        “Ice?” Henry supplied.

        “No...well, yeah...but no,” he fumed. “I’m going to kill him. If he ever touches you ever again, I will cut his hands off. If he looks at you, I’ll gouge out his eyes...I,”

        “Victor, it’s alright,” Henry tried to raise a comforting hand.

        “No, it’s not alright. It’s never been alright. What if I lost you?” he gently touched the edge between healthy and bruised skin. “I almost lost you again.”

        “I’m not dead yet,” Henry grabbed Victor’s hand and held it tight. “I swear, Lawrence Thibault Clerval does not get the honor of being the thing that kills me.” he gave a weak smile. “Can you please get me some ice and maybe aloe vera, darling.”

        Victor nodded and disappeared down the stairs. While he was gone, Henry wrestled himself out of his jeans and shoes and put on the pajama pants and socks that Victor had brought him. They were an unholy combination of yellow and blue plaid and fuzzy, neon pink. The warm feeling of flanel on his chilled skin was practically magic.

        Victor returned with an ice pack wrapped in a washcloth and a small bottle of gel. He sat next to Henry on the bathtub for a moment and wordlessly looked him over. Victor’s gaze felt warm and soft. “Let’s go to my room. We can get you comfortable and like, watch tv and that type of stuff,” Victor gently held Henry’s wrist, carefully avoiding any of the marks.

        It felt weird being on his feet again, even though it had been maybe twenty minutes. Still, nothing hurt, it just felt like Henry was trying to move through molasses. It was strange. He felt completely with it, and he was aware of what was going on around him, so why the struggle?

        Victor’s bed was the second softest thing he had ever felt, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to just curl into a ball and sleep, despite the fact it was barely noon.

        “Just here...and like that...and perfect,” Victor rearranged all his pillows to make a little nook for him and Henry. “It’s been a long time, I don’t quite remember the specifics,” he said.

        “Ice fifteen minutes per hour and keep the bruise elevated above the heart,” Henry probably will never forget. “Aren’t you supposed to be a doctor?” he smiled and winked.

        “Touchè,” Victor smiled back. “ Above the heart is going to be difficult considering…” He waved his hand at Henry’s right side. In the very least, all his major wounds were on the same side of his body.

        “I think I can handle it,” Henry said as he crawled to Victor. After a second of maneuvering, he laid his head in Victor’s lap and turned on his good side.

        “Are you ready for the ice?” Victor asked. “It’s going to be cold,” he teased. He knew how much Henry hated being cold.

        “Yeah, just do it,” Henry hissed a little as it touched his skin, but it felt surprisingly pleasant.

        “How does it feel?” Victor asked.

        “Cold.” Henry said and Victor gave him a look. “It’s better than it was before, how’s that?”

        “Acceptable,” Victor ran a hand through Henry’s hair. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

        Henry considered for a moment. “No, not tonight. I just want to be happy and safe,” Victor nodded.

        “Want to watch something?”

        “Is there any figure skating on?” Henry immediately perked up.

        “Uhhh, maybe?” Victor turned on the TV and started scrolling through the channels. “I don’t get why you like it so much. I never thought you were into sports.”

        “Victor, it’s like the best intersection of the arts and competition. And everything is so elegant and beautiful. And the music! Oh man!” Henry nuzzled into Victor’s thigh.

        “Arts _and_ sports? Man, I’m fucked,” Victor laughed and started working into the healthy skin on Henry’s shoulders. Despite himself, a pleased little noise escaped Henry’s mouth.

        “Oh, you actually like it. At least a little bit,” Henry focused on the warmth of Victor’s touch and how it urged his muscles more relaxed.

        “I like it because I with you,” Victor leaned down and pressed a small kiss to his temple. Henry hummed his enjoyment. “Okay, I think this is it. Umm, it’s a compilation of Rudy Galindo? You like him right?”

        “Oh my god, turn it on!” Henry was acutely aware that he sounded like a high school fangirl.“Okay, yeah, I like Rudy Galindo, just a little bit. Did you know he was the first openly gay skater for the US?” he asked.

        “I believe you’ve told me many times,” Victor smiled.

        “Well, he’s pretty great,” Henry focused his attention on the TV. Rudy Galindo was skating on the ice to perform his routine to Saint-Saens’ Rondo Capriccioso. The burgundy velvet of his costumed shimmered in the stage lights and for about the hundredth time, Henry wondered if the violin across his chest was actual made of wood or something else. “This is his 1998 World Challenge of Champions piece,” he informed Victor.

        “I have no idea what the actually means, but I’m glad you’re excited,” he said, fingers moving closer to Henry’s spine.

        Galindo kneeled on the ground and but the violin bow in between his knees. He shook his head and then the music started. The languid notes of the introduction filled his arms as he stood up. As the violin’s notes quickened, he transitioned into tight spins and a triple flip.

        “You know, it’s almost impossible to do that with something in his hands,” Henry said. “Physics, or something like that.”

        “Yeah, that makes sense.” Henry mewled as Victor messaged the muscles along his spine. “He’s kinda a drama queen isn’t he?” Galindo had stopped in the center of ice and moved the bow in time with the feel of the music.

        “Yeah, he is, isn’t it great!” Henry beamed into Victor’s thigh. All too soon, the performance was done and the presenters started talking about all the technicalities. It’s not that Henry didn’t care, but he had heard it all before and wanted to pay attention to Victor. He ran his warm fingers down the line of Henry’s spine and he swore he could hear himself purring.

        “You doing alright?” Victor asked with a raised eyebrow.

        “Yeah, yeah, that just feels really nice,” Henry closed his eyes, “Do you think we could take the ice off now?”

        “But it’s only been like, eight minutes,” Victor pat Henry’s shoulder in a show of mock consolation. “How about after this show?” he asked, gesturing to the TV.

        “Fine,” Henry grumbled. Victor ran a hand lovingly through his hair and kissed his cheek.

        “I’m pretty sure you’ll survive,”

        “Barely, it’s _cold_.” Victor gathered his gently in his arms. His ribs ached and one point actually really hurt, but it was worth it to be held by Victor.

        Henry hadn’t seen this routine before. In fact, he’d never seen anything like it. Rudy Galindo skated out to the center of his ice completely clad in black leather and a cape. Queen started playing.

        “Is that normal?” Victor asked, completely enraptured.

        “I...uhh..no. But I have to say…”Henry was at a loss for words.

        “I think I might like figure skating now,” Victor said. Then, Galindo took off his belt and started dancing with it. “Okay, I definitely like figure skating now.” 

        “I had no idea he had it in him,” Henry said through his hand. “This is wild.”

        “Okay, let’s get this ice off you and then we can do the aloe,” Victor ran his hand through his hair and unwrapped the ice from Henry’s ribs.

        “Sweetheart, the program’s not over yet…” Henry smiled.

        “Ehh, it’s probably been like fifteen minutes anyway, right?” Victor eased Henry onto his back.

        “Right,” Henry said incredulously. “This is doing it for you, isn’t it?”

        Victor blushed and brought his hand to his cheek. “What? No! That would be absurd.”

        “Suit yourself,” Henry closed his eyes as Victor warmed the aloe in his hands. It was a small, but welcome gesture.

        “I like you much more,” Victor said as he gently rubbed the gel into Henry’s bruises. He could feel the hesitancy in Victor’s hands as they passed over his skin. It ached, and wasn’t a particularly pleasant sensation, but the tenderness in Victor’s care made it worth it. He braced his free arm underneath Henry’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

        Henry closed his eyes. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

        Victor furrowed his brow and let his hand rest over Henry’s heart. “Why would I ever do that?”

        “I don’t know,” Henry took a deep breath. “I just want to be with you.”

        Victor pressed his nose into Henry’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise,”

        Henry sighed with contentment and raised his hand to hold Victor’s cheek. His dewy eyes were wide and deep. Henry could have lost himself in them. “Can I kiss you?” he asked.

        “Of course,” Victor said as Henry brought their lips together. It was soft and gentle as rain. Henry leaned into the embrace and enjoyed the warmth of Victor through his chest. At first, it filled him with a point of red light, but that thought dissolved when Victor brought his hand to his cheek. Sunshine rang through Henry’s chest. Reluctantly, he broke away.

        “I love you,” he said, snuggling into Victor’s stomach.

 

* * *

 

        It was a flash of familiarity, the comforting position of knowing what comes next. They’d done this dance before, many times, too many times, but Victor still knew the steps and swings of it, though the physical intimacy had since increased as did the odds. As Henry relaxed, further and further into his form, Victor courted the sudden, flooring desire to melt, to swell and sink until every fraction of him disintegrated into nothing and everything and he could touch Henry everywhere at once and feel his pulse and never again part from him or gentle breathing or this moment in time, at once still and silent yet coursing with lightning.

        When Henry kissed him, Victor could feel all the blood within him rise and settle, a smooth wave which settled into a bubbling crescent along the abandoned sea shore. As they met, Victor brought his hands to Henry’s cheeks, the desperate heat within his chest urging him to make the moment stretch as long as he could. When Henry pulled away, however, Victor took his own withdrawal though it took everything in him not to whine at the separation. Henry was the one hurting, Victor chided himself, he needed to let him set the pace. It was just that Victor could never again imagine living without the ardor and ecstasy of Henry on his skin.

        Henry sighed and settled against his stomach. His hair, fluffy and warm, splayed across Victor and the too-pale of his skin flashed a violent blueish green in the lowered light of the bedroom. The calmness within Victor began to boil and turn at the sight of it.

        He hadn’t been kidding. Given the opportunity, given even the slightest shred of an indication that Henry wouldn’t be devastated by it, Victor would tear Lawrence’s body asunder and paint his hellish blood thickly across the pastel blue of his living room walls. It wasn’t like he didn’t have experience. Victor could feel the flaky stickiness of blood buildup beneath his fingernails, the parting of skin avulsions from the body in messy bands, the give and take of a bone saw. Yes, he could take Henry’s father apart from the inside out without effort or thought. Or regret.

        “I love you.” Henry said softly.

        “I love you too.” Victor replied, mind still absorbed by shortened screams and jerking bodies engulfed in electric despair. He leaned farther over Henry, embracing him without embrace, and indulged in the pleasure of hearing the other breath and sigh and live.

        Under his touch, Victor felt calm and burning and whole. It was a new sensation, but…not unwelcome.

        They remained like that, entwined in a hold at once desperate and without measure, for a long while. Victor kept quiet the entire time (through the grace of an extreme act of will), hoping that Henry would eventually fall asleep, but the other’s half-lidded eyes continued to cycle between Victor, the door, and some figure skating performance involving a duet and pop songs, sometimes with nervous intensity, other times with lazy intent. He seemed to draw some comfort from being able to see Victor, so he kept himself bent so that he could lean into give Henry occasional kisses and fiddle with his swooping hair. For his part, Victor kept one hand pressed along Henry’s chest. Under his spindly fingers, his lover’s heart beat strongly.

        Lovers. Victor had decided he liked the way the word looped through the grooves in his mind. Like it had always had a path there. Lovers, lovers.

        He snorted to himself. Henry’s amber gaze drifted back to him, narrowed in confusion. “What?”

        Victor studied his face, taking in the way Henry’s forehead scrunched up with the motion, the slow curve of his tender lips, the strength of his cheekbones. “Nothing,” he smiled and sank farther into the bed, forcing Henry to adjust so that he lay more on top of Victor, “I’m just…I’m really dumb.”

        Henry’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “I’m sorry, who are you and what have you done with Victor Frankenstein?”

        Victor hit him lightly on the forehead and Henry laughed. It was nice to hear him laugh. It had been too long even if it had only been a few days.

        Henry settled back down and gave his scrutiny entirely to Victor. “So why are you dumb?”

        Victor just shrugged and smiled sappily. He couldn’t begin to explain it. Maybe Henry could with all his poetry and prose and power, but Victor had never managed to make his feeling known through allegories of grass and growing trees and angels and motion. “You just…you make me feel like…”

        He paused. Henry smiled at him encouragingly.

        “…I’m not going to be able to do this with you looking at me.”

        Henry shook his head. “How did you survive high school?”

        “Jess and I didn’t talk we just…you know…fucked. Like a lot.”

        “No wonder your dad has a chastity alarm.”

        Victor resisted the urge to swat at him and, upon seeing that Henry was absolutely not going to look away, heaved a deep breath. “You make me feel like a chunk of lithium thrown in a lake or neon in an electric field or a series of heart palpitations indicating underlying arrhythmia.”

        Victor paused. Henry was biting his lip.

        “You better not be laughing at me.” Victor warned, already feeling his cheeks heat up.

        Henry shook his head and bit his lip harder, waving one hand to push Victor on.

        Victor groaned. “Nope. You’ve ruined it.”

        “No, no, Victor!” Henry grabbed his arm as Victor attempted to stand up and dragged him back down. He sat up and draped his arms across Victor’s shoulders. His face lingered close to. “Just…try again. In more layman terms.”

        Victor rested his forehead against Henry’s. “You feel like an explosion and you make me feel brighter and bolder and like my heart’s skipping a beat all the time. You make me feel like myself.” He hesitated. “You make me feel like I could be a good person too.”

        He was too close to see Henry’s mouth, but a small sadness entered his eyes along with the kindness. Henry kissed him, long and slow and that was answer enough.

        Victor settled Henry back into his arms and ran his hands slowly along his lover’s back, mindful of the areas of bruising, and whispered all the things he could think of to erase what _that man_ may have put in Henry’s head. That he was important and loved and perfect and everything and that he deserved the world and that the world would never deserve him. Henry didn’t confirm his words, but he didn’t dispute them either and that was enough for now.

        It took a while, but eventually Henry nodded off.

        He checked the clock. It was about five, meaning that dinner would be sooner rather than later. Soon to be torn back to reality. Victor let his eyes drift back to the television, which was still tuned into figure skating. They were now showing an antique performance from 1991, featuring a woman in skin tight teal skirt with white sparkles and leaf–like patterns along the base. As he watched, she took a sharp turn on the ice and, flinging her arms wide, spun through the air three times in succession. Art and sports indeed. Disgusting. He wanted to guy with the belt to come back. Victor searched for the remote in the bedding and came up with his phone instead. He flipped it open.

        Two missed calls from Elizabeth, one from Justine, and a scattering of texts.

         _You called and asked that we call you back everything okay? Sorry Justine and I were busy last night and neither of us remembered our phones._

         _You okay? It’s been a few hours since I texted. Text me back_

         _You sounded okay on the phone so I’m going to take Justine’s advice and stop texting you now, call me back when you’re free_

        Victor grimaced at the screen. He really needed to get better at texting. He’d just been busy the last few hours. Days. Whatever.

         _Yeah I’m okay just wanted to check in with you._ He paused and glanced to a sleeping Henry. There was a lot to catch Elizabeth up on. But this was Henry’s information to give out and Victor had always respected that before, even when he was a thirteen-year-old making up increasingly ridiculous excuses for why he’d been caught sneaking out on his bike at midnight for the fifth time that week. _Things have been shaky with dad, but I think we’ll get things parsed out_

        Elizabeth responded almost immediately. _What did you do?_ Even over text, she managed to sound concerned.

         _It’s not always me Liz_

         _Yeah it is._

        Victor rolled his eyes. _Got it under control. Going to take a nap with Henry now_

         _Gay_

        Choosing not to respond, Victor set the phone aside and pulled Henry further into his arms, towards the head of the bed. He was out before he hit the pillow.

 

* * *

 

        Jascha did not manage to get out to go find dinner. After looking at the internet and eating lunch he was exhausted, and felt a bit like he did that first night when he’d awoken, freezing and tortured, in the lab. He dragged himself back to the same study room he’d hidden in before, and was thankful to find it empty. He put himself in a chair, leaned his head on the table, and passed out.

        Jascha’s dreams were odd. There was soccer, a bad flute solo, and other, normal weird things to have appear in dreams. The images then shifted, though, into ones of his mother. A man’s voice spoke in the background, ringing out over the sirens and the flat electrical tone that seemed to be the problem. The man’s voice was loud, and not quite angry, but furious all the same. He spoke occasionally in Russian and occasionally in English, the two bleeding into one another like watercolors on paper. He could hear a woman screaming in the background as if she’d been stabbed. Oddly, he felt unmoved by the sounds. He tried to move; to lift his arm, or sit up; but to no avail. He couldn’t feel his arms. He couldn’t really feel anything, and he slipped into inky darkness, followed only by the wailing of the woman.

        “Jascha!” Jascha snapped awake, hyperventilating and drenched in sweat. Ernest had opened the door and was looking at him with panic. “Jesus, dude, you look like hell! I’ve been running all over the library looking for you; they’re closing in, like, five minutes.”

        “Okay. Yeah,” Jascha pushed his hair out of his face, feeling light headed from his heart racing. “I’m sorry I wasn’t where I said I’d be,” He muttered quietly as he stood up.

        “It’s okay,” Ernest furrowed his brow. “Hey, listen, what’s wrong?” He whispered.

        Jascha couldn’t speak. He knew if he did, he’d fall apart, and he didn’t want Ernest to have to deal with that the night before his big game. He shook his head slowly. He could feel Ernest staring at him, but he looked straight ahead, not acknowledging his concern. A few disgruntled librarians reminded them that they weren’t supposed to be there, but they were drowned out by the ringing in his ears. Soon enough, they were in the mostly empty library parking lot. Ernest hit a button on his keys and the car’s brake lights blinked, indicating that it had been unlocked. Jascha froze in place.

        “Jascha?” Ernest asked, already halfway in the driver’s seat. “You coming?”

        Jascha instinctually took half a step back, covering his ears as he heard the slicing sound of metal against metal and crunching of earth against metal as the car rolled. He felt something deep ache in his pelvis, radiating all the way down each of his femurs. He felt someone grab his arm.

        “Jascha,” He opened his eyes and saw that the car was still parked and he was still standing. Ernest had a hand on his arm and was looking at him with a twisted gaze of fear and confusion. “Jascha, what’s going on?”

        Jascha rubbed his eyes with his free hand, forcing himself to take a breath in. “Migraine. Sorry.” He felt Ernest’s grip relax.

        “Are you okay to walk?” Ernest’s voice was soft and downy. Jascha could feel his pulse lower slightly, and the pain in his hips wane. He nodded. Ernest walked with him, even though it took him eons to make it the ten feet to the car. Ernest opened the passenger door for him and buckled him in. “It’ll be okay. It’s not too far to the hotel. Just tell me if you need me to pull over, ‘kay?” He offered Jascha a smile.

        Ernest closed the door and Jascha took a deep breath. He could do this. He did it earlier, and he’d even driven the night before. Nothing had changed in the past twenty-four hours. He had a bad dream, and he was hallucinating from lack of sleep. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing. He heard Ernest get in the seat beside him and close the door, and he heard him fumble with the key. When the ignition rumbled and the engine started, Jascha’s eyes snapped open and he grabbed Ernest’s hand. He felt every muscle in his body tense, and his chest heaved with each quick, shallow breath.

        “Jascha!” Ernest startled. “What are you- “

        “It was the sound.” Jascha said quickly, releasing his grip. “I-I’m really sorry. I just- the sound made my head hurt. I-I think I’m okay.” He leaned back in his seat.

        “Are you, like, sure?” Jascha could feel the intensity of Ernest’s eyes, even though he wasn’t looking at him. “You’re kind of reminding me of my brother, and he’s, like, actually insane.”

        “I’m okay. Please, just,” Jascha met his gaze. “Please just drive. Safely.”

        “Yeah, no prob,” Ernest nodded. “We’ll go back to the hotel and you can get some sleep. Everything will be okay.” Ernest shifted the car into reverse, pulling them out of their parking spot. Jascha wrapped his fingers around the emergency handle above the car door, holding onto it tightly. He forced his eyes to stay shut.

        He could feel them drive through campus and through part of downtown. At each intersection he felt himself tense, bracing for impact. He tried to keep his eyes closed, but part of him didn’t feel comfortable unless he could see what was happening. A black car passed Ernest on the passenger’s side without signaling, cutting them off, and Jascha felt something snap.

        “Ernest. Ernest, you need to pull over. Right now.” The walls of the car were moving; constricting around him. “Now!”

        “Listen, we’re in the middle lane of a three lane road, and traffic is bad. It’s gonna take-”

        “Please, Ernest!” Jascha held onto the handle and dug the nails of his other hand into the seat. The pain in his hips was back. It felt like the bones were exploding into tiny serrated shards and cutting through his flesh; it tickled, and itched, and ached, like having your legs fall asleep only amplified by several orders of magnitude. He felt like he was going to throw up.

        Ernest managed to change lanes and pull over to the side, flicking on his hazard lights. The minute the car was stopped Jascha opened the door and sat so that his legs were outside of the car, touching them with shaking hands. His legs weren’t being crushed. They were fine; perfectly whole under his faded blue jeans. He buried his face in his hands.

        “Hey,” Ernest had gotten out and was kneeling in front of him. “Hey, man, what’s up? You okay?” He placed his hands on Jascha’s knees. “Listen, you gotta take some breaths. You’re gonna pass out if you keep hyperventilating.”

        Jascha focused on the sensation of Ernest’s palms against his kneecaps. His hands were warm and the pressure was constant. He took a few shaky breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He felt some of the tension dissipate, and he desperately wanted to be held; to feel safe and grounded in his body.

        “Feeling better?” Ernest asked gently. “Migraines can be pretty wicked.” Jascha nodded, and held Ernest’s hand. He cringed as Ernest pulled away from him, a new pain setting in as Ernest drew his hand away nervously. “Let’s go back to the hotel, yeah?”

        Jascha felt like his body had turned to lead as he forced himself back into the car. Every fiber of his being commanded him to get out and just run home, even though he could hardly stand. He allowed Ernest to start the car without interference, bracing himself against the seat. He held whatever he could get his hands on in order to feel secure. As surely as Ernest had said, soon they were out of the city and back on the highway where there were fewer cars and flashing lights. He felt slightly better at the change.

        After another fifteen minutes Ernest finally parked the car again, this time in the hotel parking lot. Jascha dug his copy of the room key out of his pocket and got out of the car as soon as it had stopped, running back up to the sanctity of the hotel room. He was vaguely aware that Ernest was calling after him, but he didn’t stop. Once in their room, he stripped off all of his sweat-soaked clothes and discarded them on the floor, locking the bathroom door. He turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature so that it was scaldingly hot before he got in. Once safely contained in the glass shower stall, he collapsed to the floor and finally cried, rubbing the life back into his legs as he did. The heat of the water and the pressure of the droplets against his skin flooded him with enough sensation and noise that it drowned out the phantom prickling sensation in his hips and thighs, forcing him back into the body he had now.

        He looked at the deep scars around each hip socket, and the strange scars around the sharp points of his pelvis. He wondered about the surgery. He knew that there was no way he’d been completely replaced from the waist down, because his spine must have been kept intact for him to be able to move. Had the shattered pieces of his pelvis been put back together like a jigsaw puzzle, or had replacements been put in for the joints? After spending nearly two months in his body he was starting to make guesses about how the procedure (ritual, more like it) had been done.

        It wasn’t so much that he was given new parts as it was that the imperfect or broken parts had been swapped. His torso, which he had believed to be entirely that of another’s, was most likely still mostly his, but with muscle added and copious skin grafting done to make up for whatever had been lost in the surgery, or as he assumed now, the accident. It was true that his arms and legs weren’t his, but that was probably because they’d been damaged. He couldn’t remember breaking his arms in the...dream, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t possible. He remembered from school that the nervous system was complex, so even if Victor had needed to replace only a small thing, like a wrist, it may have been easier to replace the whole arm and thus only have to fight with the big nerves. He thought of Victor, of all the intimate places that he’d seen and touched that no other person would ever be able to see or touch again. He’d probably handled every organ in his body and restrung every nerve and tendon like a broken violin string. Nothing in his body would ever be private to him, for Victor knew every piece of it more personally than he ever would.

        He was pulled from his thoughts by Ernest knocking on the door. How long had he been there? Jascha’s fingertips were pruney, so it must have been a while. He finally washed his body and shut off the water, feeling suddenly naked without its warmth. He wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the door. The moment he did, he felt Ernest wrap his arms around him.

        “Oh, thank god,” Ernest breathed, resting his chin on his shoulder. “I was worried you’d passed out.”

        After a second, Jascha slowly allowed himself to hug Ernest back. Ernest wasn’t Victor, he repeated to himself, even if at a glance they seemed identical. He could feel Ernest’s breaths against his skin, slow and even. They reminded him that despite not knowing whose lungs resided in his chest, he needed to breathe as well. He sighed and relaxed, leaning some of his weight against Ernest, feeling the full force of his exhaustion now that the adrenaline was wearing off. He felt Ernest’s hands rubbing his back in light, soothing strokes. His hands were cool against his hot skin.

        “Are you okay?” Ernest asked after a moment. Jascha felt his voice reverberate against his chest when he spoke.

        “Bad headache,” Jascha managed to whisper. “Exhausted.”

        “Okay,” Ernest said skeptically. “I need to, like, get ready for tomorrow’s game, but you can maybe sleep for a bit while I do that? I don’t plan on being up late, anyways.”

        Jascha nodded and reluctantly pulled himself away from Ernest’s embrace, wandering over to the bed. He lay on top of it without getting under the covers and curled up on his side. He knew he probably looked insane, but he didn’t care. Normally he couldn’t stand laying on wet hair, but he didn’t have the energy to dry it. It probably wasn’t even his hair, so why should he care about what happens to it? He was vaguely aware of Ernest doing something in the bathroom with the sink and the blow dryer, but he didn’t have enough energy to lift his head and look. He just curled into a tighter ball.

        After what felt like hours, he heard Ernest shut off the light in the bathroom. Soon after, he felt the mattress depress as Ernest got in beside him. He felt his fingers brush against the back of his neck, pushing his damp hair to one side, followed by the softness of his lips as he kissed the nape of his neck. Jascha felt a dull wave of heat and sensation radiate through his body, and opened his eyes. The bedside lamp seemed unbearably bright. He rolled onto his other side and met Ernest’s gaze, warm and sweet like honey. Ernest smiled at him faintly.

        “Are you going to put on pajamas, or are you sleeping in a towel tonight?” He whispered.

        Jascha had forgotten about clothes. That would require standing. “Pajamas. In a minute.”

        Ernest traced his scars lightly with his fingers, brow furrowed in concern. Jascha would normally welcome the gentle touch, but he couldn’t handle being reminded of where his body started and ended or where Victor’s hands had been inside him. He caught Ernest’s hand and pressed it to his lips, kissing his knuckles. He felt Ernest tense slightly.

        “I have a game tomorrow,” Ernest’s voice was quiet and worried.

        “I know.”

        “I like…” Ernest took a deep breath. “I, like, can’t be gay and do soccer tomorrow. I just-”

        “Please, don’t do this now,” Jascha released Ernest’s hand and felt the dull knife of anger in his chest. He tried to keep his tone even, but he knew it came off as passive aggressive.

        “I just can’t, like, play if I feel guilty, you know?” Ernest’s voice rose as he got defensive. “Like, what if I botch a goal or a pass because I’m, like, worrying about people finding out?”

        “You kissed my neck a minute ago,” Jascha’s voice was sharp, though he tried to keep it level. “What changed in a minute?”

        “I don’t know,” Ernest mumbled. “It’s just different. If it’s just one of us.”

        “‘One of us’? What does that mean?” Jascha, for the first time since the library, actually had a dull headache. At least now he didn’t have to lie about that.

        “It’s like. More gay if we’re both, like…”

        “Gay?” Jascha offered.

        “Yeah,” Ernest said quickly. “I guess. It’s easier if I, like, do it.”

        “Do what?” Jascha rolled and lay on his back with an arm draped over his eyes.

        “Like, the homo stuff. Because then it’s, like, I can say I’m just doing it because you like it. And not because I’m, like, you know. That kind of guy.”

        “I can’t deal with this tonight,” Jascha said coldly. “This is completely insane and I just can’t.” Jascha sat up and got out of bed, wandering over to where he’d left his pajamas the previous morning. He pulled them on.

        “Jascha!” Ernest raised his voice. “Dude, it’s not that big a deal.”

        Jascha finished getting dressed and got in the other bed, pulling the blankets over himself. “Ernest, it’s a big deal for me. Okay? I’m tired, and stressed, and my head is killing me.”

        “I...I don’t want to sleep alone,” Ernest said softly. “I haven’t had to do that in, like, a week. It stresses me out.”

        Jascha thought about it for a minute. Truth be told, he desperately didn’t want to face sleep alone either. The now-familiar feeling of Ernest leaning against him helped him to feel safe and secure, and as angry as he was, he craved that safety. If he gave in, however, he’d lose the fight and Ernest would win, which wasn’t acceptable.

        “Will you let me kiss you?” Jascha asked flatly, meeting Ernest’s eyes from the other side of the room.

        “I’ll kiss you, if that’s what you want,” Ernest said weakly. Even in the low light Jascha could tell he was blushing.

        Jascha shook his head. “I want to kiss you,” He repeated. “I want to be able to kiss you when we’re alone.”

        Ernest between Jascha and his hands anxiously, picking at his cuticles. He glanced back to Jascha. “Jascha, I-”

        “Yes, or no?” Jascha interrupted. “Either you like being kissed, or you don’t. That’s what I’m asking.”

        “I do like it,” Ernest pleaded. “I’m just- Jascha, this is, like, really super hard. What if someone asks about you? I’m kind of bad at lying.”

        “We’re friends,” Jascha said slowly. “That’s not a lie, is it?”

        “No,” Ernest conceded. “You’re kind of, like, my closest friend now.”

        “It’s normal for friends to hang out with each other,” Jascha’s tone was gentler. Being angry at Ernest was exhausting and unpleasant. “No one needs to know what we do, and honestly, most people probably won’t ask much about anything.”

        “You think?” Ernest finally looked at him again, and his eyes were wide as saucers.

        “No one knows we’re here. No one knows that what we’ve done together, and I don’t think people are going to be suspicious of us at your game tomorrow,” Jascha sighed. “So I ask again, will you let me kiss you?”

        Ernest bit his lip as he thought for a second, but he nodded. Jascha forced himself to get up again and walk the six feet back to the other bed, laying back down in the spot he’d abandoned. He took Ernest’s face gently between his hands, feeling soft affection well up where the anger had been when he saw how red Ernest’s cheeks were behind the freckles. He kissed him on the mouth, lightly at first until he felt Ernest relax. He parted his lips and invited Ernest to deepen the kiss, and he was almost surprised when he did. He felt Ernest roll so that he was laying more or less on top of Jascha’s stomach, and he could feel his hands tangle in his long hair. When they pulled away to breathe, he felt Ernest’s erection against his stomach. He ran his hands down Ernest’s back, setting them at his hips. When Ernest sat up to look at him his face was flushed and he was out of breath as if he’d been running. He felt him slide his hands down his chest and stomach, hovering at the hem of his shirt.

        “We...really shouldn’t,” Ernest said miserably. “I shouldn’t stay up late before the game.”

        Jascha massaged the taught muscles at the base of his spine. Of all the reasons Ernest could have given for not wanting to go further, this was honestly the best of them. He, too, was tired and would probably benefit from an early night, even if it wasn’t what he wanted. “That’s okay,” Jascha dreamily. “We can wait until after the game.”

        Ernest sighed and collapsed beside him, laying on his back and staring at the ceiling. “I’m sorry I’m, like, really awful. About all of this.”

        Jascha turned onto his side and placed a hand on Ernest’s chest. “I asked to kiss you, and you let me. That’s what I wanted.”

        Ernest placed his hand on top of Jascha’s, twining their fingers together. Ernest was smiling. “Jascha, the game is gonna be so cool tomorrow,” He rolled over to face him, his cheeks still tinged pink. “Dad called and said he’s bringing William and Henry.”

        “Who’s William?” Jascha asked. He slid down so that he could rest his head on Ernest’s chest, though he had to curl up in order to keep his legs on the bed. He sighed happily as Ernest stroked his hair.

        “William is my baby brother. He’s, like, eleven. Super fucking cute. He’s, like, legally blind or something so he always wears these thick glasses. They make his eyes look huge.” Jascha could hear the smile in Ernest’s voice, and he felt himself relax. “Do you have siblings?”

        “I don’t think so,” Jascha muttered absently. He felt the pull of sleep against his eyes.

        “You don’t _think_ so?” Ernest asked incredulously.

        “Mhm,” Jascha snuggled in deeper against Ernest, reluctantly shifting as Ernest turned onto his side. He wrapped his arms around Ernest and they hooked their legs together, holding each other close. Jascha nuzzled his face into Ernest’s curls. He was so comfortable and sleepy now that couldn’t remember how he’d managed the emotional endurance to be angry at him earlier.

        Despite the warmth and contentment of Ernest’s weight against his own, he heard the ring of a flatline in the back of his head, like a strange sort of tinnitus. He was faintly aware of Ernest asking him something else about his family, or maybe talking more about his own, but Jascha had drifted off into the inky black of uneasy sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you want to see the figure skating routines mentioned in this fic:
> 
> Rondo Capriccioso: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SBfQ-FLYOJc  
> Queen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RPF6jCg5BSM


	23. Pastimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry watches soccer. Victor paces. Jascha has sex in a shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thank you for keeping up with this fic! We always enjoy getting feedback so don't be shy!
> 
> Sorry for the tiny delay in updating, sometimes life happens. 
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter are: sex, minor panic attacks, and more sex

        “Victor, it’s too early,” Henry groaned as he rolled on his side. Victor held him steady as he tried to prop himself up on his forearm.

        “On the contrary, it’s 6:30 at night,” Victor ran a hand through Henry’s mussed up hair.

        “It’s time for dinner,” William piped in from the doorway. “Umm...are you okay. Dad told me I should get him if you seemed really hurt.”

        “I’m fine,” Henry said, eyes still swimming with sleep.

        “You seem pretty hurt,” William stepped into the room. It the back of his head, Henry felt like he should have been embarrassed to be found shirtless sleeping with Victor, but he couldn’t find the energy to care at the moment.

        He tried to wiggle his torso but there was a stabbing pain in his right side. Definitely a broken rib, maybe just cracked. Alphonse didn’t really need to know, and yet… “I just really want to go to the game tomorrow. Just, you can tell your dad after if you want,” Henry conceded.

        “Alright...” William sounded unsure but Henry sank back into Victor’s embrace. “You still have to come to dinner though.”

        Henry groaned again. “We’ll be down in a couple minutes.”

        It took all of Henry’s energy to forced himself to sit upright. His vision blurred like being underwater and it felt like he was breathing something thicker than air. His torso hurt and tiredness clung to his limbs. Wordlessly, Victor brought Henry one of his shirts and a comb. He looked at him with fuzzy eyes.

        “You’re going to a game?” Victor asked as he helped Henry put his shirt on.

        “Yeah, it’s Ernest’s final. I think it’s really important to him,” Henry said, humming as Victor ran the comb through his hair.

        “Ernest’s game?” Henry couldn’t quite tell if Victor was worried or angry.

        “Yeah. Ernest’s game,” he sighed. “It’s not a big deal. I just want to do something normal and fun.”

        “Going to Ernest’s game is normal?” Victor asked as he placed Henry’s glasses on his nose.

        “Thanks. I didn’t notice I was missing them,” Henry said. “And yeah. I’ve always gone to finals. Even before you two freaked out. You were the one who decided never to go with me.”

        “Oh,” Victor frowned. “I hadn't noticed.”

        “It’s okay, really. Not a big deal at all. Let’s not keep your family waiting,” Henry said as he tried to haul himself to his feet. Victor caught him by the elbow before he completely fell. The trek downstairs was longer and more arduous than he intended, but he made it down in one piece and that’s what counted.

        “I see William was successfully able to wake the dead,” Alphonse said as Henry and Victor stumbled into the dining room.

        “It wasn’t easy,” William quipped as he placed a set of silverware on a napkin.

        Dinner was mostly quiet, save for the obvious avoidance of the most pressing issues at hand, namely Henry’s physical health and Victor’s mental health. Alphonse drifted from topic to topic, receiving acceptable answers from all three of the boys.

        “How is school?” Alphonse asked, seemingly desperate for anything other than silence.

        “I got a new book from the library today. Uncle Henry promised to read poetry with me tonight, right?” William said, eyes lighting up.

        “Totally!” Henry said. “I’m just dying to see what you’ve picked.” What type of poetry did eleven year old boys willingly choose at the library? Henry had no idea.

        “And Henry, how is school treating you?” Alphonse asked.

        “I’ve just been working on my thesis, mostly,” Henry said. “I guess it’s kinda boring for people who aren’t already in the field…” As much as he wanted to gush about his writing, he didn’t want to completely derail the entire dinner conversation.

        “You know. You talk about your thesis as fair bit, but I still have no idea what it’s actually about,” Alphonse pushed him forward.

        “I’m writing about optimism and homoerotisism in Walt Whitman’s poetry,” Henry could be under control. He totally did not have to geek out at the Frankenstein family about his work. He was calm, cool and collected.

        “And?” Alphonse prompted.

        “And I love it to pieces,” Henry couldn’t help himself. “The first half is a pretty standard analysis, mostly from Calamus, but the second half is a an exploration of how was can co-opt this type of non-traditional, positive narrative to empower kids,” Alphonse nodded along, looking rather intrigued. “It’s just really important to me because it shows that gay people could have good, happy lives, even back then. And it’s like, there’s such a culture of shame surrounding sexuality in general that Whitman just completely lacks. It’s like, I read these poems and know I have a future,” Henry blushed, “but that was probably way more than you were asking for.”

        “No no no,” Alphonse said, “It’s good to be passionate about what you’re studying. I’m glad you’re happy.”

        “Dad, may I be excused to go read with Uncle Henry?” William asked, practically bouncing out of his chair.

        “That depends,” Alphonse laughed, “Is Uncle Henry finished with his dinner?”

        Henry finished the last bite of his asparagus. “Yeah, I’m good. Let’s go, buddy,” he turned to Victor and kissed him on his cheek, vaguely aware it was the first time he kissed Victor in from on someone else, much less Alphonse. “I’ll see you later tonight, yeah?”

        Victor blushed, “Yeah. I’ll see you.”

        Henry followed William up the stairs to his room. His name was painted on the door in bright pastel letters. Inside, William waited for Henry on the edge of a bed holding a giant book on his lap.

        “Uncle Henry, guess what I have!” William said, hiding the title against his chest.

        “Hmm,” Henry sat next to him. “I don’t know, looks impressive though.”

        “It’s the Iliad,” the biggest smile spread across William’s face. “My teacher said it was ‘too violent’ and ‘too difficult’ for seventh graders, but I saw Isabella reading it and I thought it was, like, super cool.”

        “That’s awesome, buddy. Have you started it yet?” Henry asked.

        “I’ve been reading it all week! I’m on…” He flipped to where a page was labeled with a ribbon, “Book 16!”

        “Oof, that one’s heavy, bud,” Henry said.

        “I’m going to read it outloud to you,” William declared as he hopped off his bed and over to his deck. “You know, just like bards used to do. I’ve been working on my presentation.”

        Henry smiled and leaned back on his forearms. “Hit me with your best shot.”

        William adjusted his glasses and began to read:

         _Patroclus went to Achilles, his people’s shepherd,_

_shedding warm tears, like a fountain of dark water_

_whose stream flows over the lip of a sheer rock face._

_Looking at him, swift-footed, godlike Achilles_

_felt pity. So he spoke to him—his words had wings:_

_“Why are you crying, Patroclus, like some girl,_

_an infant walking beside her mother,_

_asking to be picked up._

_Is there something you need to say_

_to the Myrmidons or me?_

_People say Menoetius, Actor’s son,_

_is still living, and Peleus is alive,_

_If these two had died, then we’d have something_

_real to grieve about. Or are you feeling sad_

_for Argives as they’re being obliterated_

_among the hollow ships for all their pride?_

_Speak up. Don’t conceal what’s on your mind._

_Then we’ll both understand.”_

        “Achilles is kinda a jerk isn’t he,” William peered over his book. “He’s been a jerk the entire book and it’s just like. He feels bad. I can tell that he feels bad, but he still acts terribly. Why?”

        “I don’t know bud. He kinda reminds me of a weird combination of Ernest and Victor sometimes,” Henry said.

        “Oh. That would be awful,” William scrunched his nose. “Ernest is too nice and forgiving for Achilles though.And Victor is just so...Victor. I guess he’s also not great with emotions, huh.”

        “Yeah, he’s getting better though,” Henry cocked his head. “Did you know I used to read this to Victor when we were little? Don’t let him tell you otherwise, but he loved it.”

        “Victor? Like the arts? Never,” William pretended to be shocked.

        “Mhmm, it’s true. He named the cat Patroclus. That was _his_ decision, but he’d tell you your mom and Ernest talked him into it.” he said.

        “Ernest loved that cat. I wish I could have met him,” William said, still smiling.

        “Well…” Henry shifted uncomfortably, “That was way before your time. I think I was eleven when…” he stopped himself. No need to traumatize William with Victor’s misdeeds.

        “When what?”

        “Absolutely nothing.” he answered quickly.

        “Are you sure?” William asked. Henry nodded. “Well, in that case, I think you remind me a lot of Patroclus,”

        “Really?” Henry asked. “How so?”

        “It’s just the everything about you. It’s hard to explain,” William sat the book down and returned to Henry’s side. “He’s just brave and good, you know. More heroic than Achilles, by far. He cares about his friends.”

        Henry smiled and hugged William. “You’re sweet, buddy, but I’m not heroic. Not by a long shot.”

        William nuzzled into his shoulder. “I think you are. I bet Ernest and dad think so too. They always say great things about you.” There was a comfortable pause. “Uncle Henry, do you think Victor’s going to be okay?”

        “Why do you ask that?” William still hadn’t let go of Henry’s chest.

        “He just seems either angry or scared all the time. I want to help him feel better, but he doesn’t like me very much. He thinks I’m a baby.”

        “I know it’s hard to see sometimes, but Victor loves you very much, he’s just really bad at showing it. He can be really...difficult to handle. I used to write him little sticky notes when we were kids and he seemed to like those a lot. Maybe try that?” Henry rubbed William’s back. He thought back to when Ernest was his age. It must be unbelievably difficult to be Victor Frankenstein’s little brother.

        “Okay, I think I will,” William yawned.

        “And I think it’s time for you to go to sleep,” Henry made a show of plopping him into his bed.

        When he entered Victor’s room he was very careful to not wake his sleeping lover. He liked that word the best. Lover. It carried with it the weight and memory of time. It warmed him like a wool blanket or wood fire. He kept the lights off and felt his way to the bed.

        “You don’t need to go creeping around. It’s like, 8:30. I think it’s biologically impossible for me to go to sleep yet,” Victor said, turning his eyes to meet Henry’s. He reached out his hand and held Henry’s cheek. “You’re really beautiful,”

        Henry smiled and nuzzled into Victor’s palm. “Where did that come from?” he asked. 

        “I’ve just been thinking about you,” Henry gently held Victor’s wrist and placed a kiss on the center of his palm. He pulled Victor closer and kissed a line from his clavicle to the tender spot under his ear before finally coming to his lips. Victor opened his mouth and invited him to deepen the kiss. Henry could feel his blood rising to his cheeks and settling in the pit of his stomach.

        “Do you want to finish what we started?” Henry asked. He held back a laugh. Victor’s half-lidded eyes looked so beautiful and excited.

        “Please.” Victor kissed Henry again. The press of his lips pulled him from the nebulous realm of literature and parents and worrying about the future into a soft haze of light and warmth. Henry could feel Victor toying with the hem of his shirt. He lifted his arms and Victor inelegantly pulled it over his head, mussing up his hair and taking his glasses along with it.

        “Wait. Shit. Fuck. I’m sorry,” Victor mumbled into Henry’s side as he leaned to retrieve them. Henry pressed a kiss into his hair and laid back as Victor delicately kissed his ribs. His skin sang with electricity and he needed more.

        Henry gently pushed Victor so he was lying flat with his back against the bed. Henry watched, enraptured, as Victor’s eyes widened into deep mountain pools filled with crayfish and laughter and the first declarations of love. Henry’s fingers hovered over Victor’s top button. “Can I take off your shirt?” he asked. Victor nodded and Henry began to undo the buttons, but his hands were shaking from excitement and something else coiling around the base of his spine. He tossed Victor’s shirt to the side and kissed the center of his chest. With a surge of confidence, Henry straddled Victor’s lap and ran his hands down his stomach settling at his waistband. Victor’s flushed face and chest and parted lips made his looked absolutely debauched. A pulse of red light and a wave of nausea broke over his head.

        “Henry?” Victor asked, propping himself up on his forearms. “Henry, what’s wrong?”

        “I’m sorry,” Henry clasped both hands over his mouth and flinched as hot tears rolled down his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Victor steadied his shoulders and tried to look him in the eye, but Henry pressed his forehead into his sternum. “I’m sorry I’m doing this to you.”

        “No, no, you aren’t doing anything bad to me,” Victor held Henry close against his chest and gently stroked his hair. “It’s alright. You’re safe and I have you and I’d never let you do anything I didn’t love.”

        “I’m not well. I’m going to hurt you. You don’t deserve…” Henry shook in Victor’s arms. Victor settled him back into the bed and pulled the comforter over their shoulders.

        “You are brave and kind and empathetic and everything that is good in the world,” Victor struggled for the right words. “Nothing I could do with you, nothing in the world, could be anything less than sublime.”

        “How do you know?” Henry asked. “I’m damaged and I’ll never…”

        “No. That’s not true. It’s never been true,” Henry hid his face in his hands as if that could help him escape into the darkness of the night. He could disappear into the void and become poetry or stardust or whatever happens to people when they just vanish. “Henry,” Victor tentatively took his cheek and guided his eyes to meet his own. “You are a wonderful person and I’m lucky to have you. My family is lucky to have you. You make my life so much brighter.” He brushed a tear from Henry’s face.

        “I’m sorry,” Henry said as he snuggled back against Victor’s chest.

        “It’s okay. You’re okay,” he responded.

        Guilt gnawed inside Henry’s ribs and threatened to tear out his stomach and liver. He wished he could melt right into Victor’s skin and be protected from the voices that yelled in his head. He desperately wished he could vocalise exactly what he meant and why, but he couldn’t so he wept instead. Eventually tears faded to sleep which faded again to the morning and William pounding on their door.

        “Uncle Henry!” he called through the door. “It’s time to get ready for Ernest’s game. I have face paint!” even half asleep, Henry could feel his energy radiating through the door.

        “Ernest! Fuck!” Victor swore under his breath, “William, Henry’s sleeping. Come back later,” he had placed a protective arm across Henry’s body, like a lion trying to protect his cubs.

        “It’s fine, it’s fine, I should get up anyway,” he whispered as he dragged himself up. 

        “Can I help you?” Victor swayed nervously.

        Henry narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, can you grab me your old rugby shirt, the one with the stripes. Are you okay?”

        “Yeah, totally fine,” Victor said through gritted teeth.

        “Is it about last night, because I’m sorry for that...display,” Henry felt his shoulders tense against his will.

        “No, well yeah, but no. I’m just nervous, that’s all. It’s nothing to worry about,” Victor huffed as he shoved the shirt into Henry’s hands.

        “I mean, other than the obvious long term implications, what’s there to be nervous about? I’ve chilled out. I can work through it now. Nothing’s going to go catastrophic in the near future.”

        “You don’t know that.” Victor snapped.

        “What?” Henry whispered, reaching for Victor’s hand. After a second of hesitation, Victor took it.

        “Last time you went out with Ernest it did go catastrophic and I’m not allowed to do anything or go anywhere so there’s nothing I can do to help you,” Victor ran a nervous hand through his hair. “What if something goes wrong again?”

        “I’ll be with Alphonse and William. Nothing is going to go wrong with Alphonse Frankenstein around,” Henry pressed a hesitant kiss to Victor’s knuckles.

        “Just, promise me you’ll be safe, okay. I just need to hear you say it,” Victor closed his eyes.

        “I promise I’ll be safe. I’ll keep my eyes out and if I think anything’s weird I’ll go straight to Alphonse, okay?” Henry smiled.

        “Okay,” Victor kissed the bridge of Henry’s nose. It felt strange over the stitches, but still soft and pleasant.

        “Are you two done being all mushy and gross?” William asked, “Can I come in now?” Victor turned the brightest shade of red Henry had ever seen. Henry walked to the door and let him in. “I want those cool stripes,” he said, drawing his fingers across his cheeks making both Henry and Victor laugh.

        “I can definitely do that,” Henry said as he took the face paint. “There,” he said after he was done. “You look very festive.”

        “I look fierce, like a lion,” William beamed and put his hands up like claws.

        “I am absolutely terrified,” Henry laughed. Williams thick, round glasses made his eyes practically the size of dinner plates and his mousy hair and curls only added to the charm.

        “Uncle Henry, what are you going to do?”

        Henry considered the jar of paint. “I don’t know. I don’t usually do anything like this…” he trailed off.

        “Of course you should,” Victor cut in with a roguish grin. He took the jar and drew three small dots and a line across both of Henry’s cheeks. He blew on them gently so the paint would dry and Henry blushed. “There, now you look like a real Phoenix.”

        Alphonse called William and Henry from downstairs. “I’ve got to run,” Henry said, but Victor didn’t release his hand.

        “Be safe?” he asked with small squeeze.

        “I promise,” Henry smiled and was promptly pulled down stairs by William.

        The ride was short and pleasant. William talked a mile a minute about what was happening and school and about his new friend Isabella. He seemed very enthusiastic about how smart she was and how great she was at art and how she liked to talk to him during their free bell. It was so sweet and refreshing to see William so blissfully unaware that he had a huge crush.

        At the game, it was almost impossible to find anywhere to sit, so Alphonse had to run back to the car to grab and blanket. They chose a spot underneath a tree and waited for the game to start. With some effort Henry was able to catch Ernest’s eye and give his a small thumbs up. Ernest beamed and waved back. There was a coin toss and both of the teams lined up and the game started with Ernest in a breakaway down the field. Henry didn’t know much about soccer, but he knew that was a good thing.

        “Go Ernest! Kick the ball! Score the point!” he waved his arms frantically in the air. William jumped up and down next to him. Ernest kicked the ball into the upper right corner of the net. Perfect. Barely even a minute into the game and Ernest was winning. He deserved it.

        The rest of the game was a cinch. Ernest dominated whenever he took to the field. Even though the other team (some university, Henry couldn’t remember even though it was printed on their shirts) scored points when Ernest had to rest, he and his teammates always made up for it. Even Alphonse, as reserved as he was, would stand and cheer when points were scored.

        There were three minutes left of the game and by some miracle of divinely bad luck, the other team brought the score to a tie. Ernest took to the field and Henry could feel the fire behind his eyes, even from where he was sitting on the sidelines. He stole the ball and took off towards the goal, but he was flanked by two defensemen. Just when it seemed like he would get past them, one of them threw their elbow into his ribs.

        “What the hell?” Henry yelled and William winced. The ref blew the whistle and threw a flag and Ernest got set up to do a penalty kick. The other team made a defensive wall in front of the net, but it didn’t really matter. Ernest sent the ball flying straight over their heads and into the net. The entire UChicago sideline went wild. The minutes went quickly after that and there was no better sight than Ernest standing triumphantly in the center of his teammates after they won.

 

* * *

 

        He was getting insanely tired of this routine, pacing the house, looking for stuff to do to distract himself from all the shit he wanted to focus on. Wasn’t it, like, bad to constantly be shoving his issues and worries away? That’s what everyone always told him, but the alternative was trying to rationalize and sort through the load of baloney that was his brain. Henry didn’t want to sleep with him. Rational response: of course he doesn’t. He’s been through a load of trauma specifically surrounding intimate relationships with men, to the extent of being trained to associate his desire for men with moral degradation. Ergo sex with Victor, his oldest, closest friend, would naturally be iffy. Especially if they were to consider the implications that Henry had ‘turned Victor gay’ (not true, but still a thought). But all of that rationality was drowned behind irrational Victor brain which was completely and utterly convinced that Henry didn’t want him because he knew that Victor was a horrible person decaying from the inside out and slowly poisoning all the goodness in Henry with his perverse soul. Yet another layer insisted that Victor was just so horrible at sex that Henry couldn’t bear to sleep with him. And the layer after that was completely sure that Henry had feelings for Ernest. Victor didn’t even _know_ where that particular thought came from considering that his jock brother was the straightest man he’d ever met, but. As he said. This was all garbage brain.

        Henry was not in danger. He was with Alphonse Frankenstein. His father would protect Henry and William and everyone.

        Victor’s fingers twitched, desperately wishing for Henry to be next to him. He wanted to check his pulse again. He did not want to be alone in this giant, eerie house waiting for his family to return from being functional and happy without him. Like always.

        Victor did the dishes. Then he dried them. Organized the tupperware in the kitchen, which wasn’t much of a task considering his father always kept them immaculate. What was with that man and his perfect house? The organization genes definitely did not pass down to Victor. He was lucky to be able to keep himself clean.

        Victor checked his hair. Noted its greasiness. Took a shower.

        What else? He had maybe an hour left to be alone? More if Ernest won because then there would be rounds of congratulations and talking to team members and ice cream to celebrate or something.

        Victor felt a stab of jealousy, which he smothered under another attempted round of poetry reading. How Henry managed to keep focused long enough to read this stuff, Victor would never know. He was able to for about...ten minutes.

        Great. Just fucking great. What was there left to do in this house? Drink? Sleep? He’d already done enough of that to last him five years. Maybe he could go find out exactly how many books his father owned. The last time he’d counted was when he was seventeen and under a similar kind of house arrest. 10,398 books. 79 picture frames. 30 bowls. 127 pieces of fine china. 6 degrees scattered throughout the house.

        Maybe the reason he self destructed so often was because he was so fucking bored all the time. At least Jascha had given him that, something to do, something to commit himself to constantly, all the time, every hour of every day until all his relationships began to degrade and his health went so down the sewer he dropped three pant sizes.

        Okay so maybe that wasn’t the answer either.

        Introspection time with your host Victor Frankenstein. Vicky Frankenstein. Dr. Frankenstein.

        He snorted. At least now that he was feeling more like himself, he could recognize how batshit he had sounded while first talking to Jascha. No wonder the poor man had wanted out of his lab so fast. No wonder Henry had stared at him in fear.

        No wonder.

        Victor half wished someone had invited him to see Ernest play. Not that he was interested in Ernest or his soccer or his excess of loud, annoying friends, but it was better to be with Henry, to see him safe and sound, than to be here waiting. Hell, he’d even like hanging out with William. Alas.

        But he needed to stop wallowing in self pity now. He was under house arrest because he’d made mistakes (a lot of them) and now he was paying for it. Ernest didn’t want him at the game because he and Victor weren’t close or friendly and Victor had done that thing with the cat which, in retrospect, was probably grounds to actually kill him.

        And Henry loved him. He’d said so. Victor needed to learn how to believe him.

        He made himself a sandwich. Sat in front of the TV. Watched a PBS special on black holes. Fact checked the math on it. Looked to the clock. Yup. Ernest’s team had won. It would be another hour now at least.

        A bit more wandering around the house yielded an old cassette player, which Victor set up in the living room and adjusted to blare his father’s one track of non-classical music, the Beach Boys. It was an album he knew by heart. Pet Sounds. After taking a moment to be proud of his ability to make the damaged tape work again, Victor ran up stairs to his room and grabbed the constellation maker off of his bedside table. It only took a few minutes to get the thing set up to project on the ceiling and as _That’s Not Me_ transitioned into _Don’t Talk_ Victor forced himself to lay back on the couch and relax.

        He wouldn’t look at the clock again. Henry would be home soon and he would be totally fine and he was not in danger. Victor just had to wait. He was getting used to that now. Or, well, he wasn’t. But he would. Had to. Eventually. Henry had spent his whole life chasing after Victor, it was the least he could do to return the favor. It was the least he could do to slow down a moment.

        Sagitta floated across the high ceiling, a misty image projected by a dying machine, as in the background the chorus swelled.

_Don’t talk, put your head on my shoulder_

_Don’t talk, close your eyes and be still_

_Don’t talk, put your head on my shoulder_

_Don’t talk, close your eyes and be still_

        Victor couldn’t close his eyes, but he could try and be still. At least he could manage that. He wouldn’t look at the clock again as the songs melted into one another peacefully so that he began to lose track of their meaning.

_I’m waiting for the day you can love again._

 

* * *

 

        Jascha would never admit this to Ernest were he to ask, but he had been glazed over for most of the game. He felt weird after their fight last night (if you could really call it that), and to make matters worse he’d had another version of the car dream again. This time, he was under the car. He felt completely fine for the first few minutes before he realized he couldn’t feel his legs. After that, the mind-altering pain set in, and he woke up. This repeated throughout the night, and after each bout of the nightmare he was happy to find himself lying comfortably against Ernest’s chest. They’d shifted at some point in the night, but he was quickly learning that was normal, since apparently Ernest couldn’t hold still, even in sleep.

        He only knew that Ernest had won when he heard the ref blow the whistle and saw Ernest kick the ball into the goal for his penalty kick. The crowd exploded around him, preventing him to treading back into his delirious mixture of sleep deprivation and lingering stress about Ernest’s feelings for him. He got up and smiled as Ernest looked at him. It was difficult to be worried or angry when Ernest looked at him with such complete joy and confidence. He zoned out again as Ernest dealt with the formalities of getting group hugged by his team and congratulated by the other team, allowing himself instead to stare into the middle distance and think longingly about how long he would have to wait before he and Ernest could go back to bed.

        “Jascha!” He snapped back into the present just in time to catch Ernest as he threw himself at him. Ernest wrapped his arms around him tightly and he could feel him press his face into his shoulder. Instinctually, he looked to see if anyone else was staring at them. He found no one except Henry and two other dark haired people, one older and one small. Wait, Henry?

        Ernest held onto him for about ten seconds longer than Jascha had learned was the acceptable length of a hug between adult men, but he wasn’t about to push him away. On the contrary, he would have liked very much to be able to kiss him and ask if it would be okay for them to return to their hotel. Ernest let go as he saw Henry and the other two approaching them, launching himself towards the person Jascha could only assume was Ernest’s baby brother. Ernest scooped up the kid into a tight hug and the boy squealed in delight, causing Henry and the older man to smile. Jascha tried to be invisible; an impossible task for a guy who’s a 6’5”, 210 pounds, with a striking face.

        “Hi, Jascha,” Henry said gently, startling Jascha. He looked...okay. Jascha could see that there were bruises on his face, but compared to what he’d been expecting given Ernest’s panic attack, he looked good.

        “Hey,” Jascha put his hands in is sweater pocket awkwardly. “How, uh...are you feeling?”

        Henry gave him a weak smile. “Better than I was,” He said softly.

        Ernest turned back towards him. He now had the kid in an affectionate headlock. And both were grinning ear to ear. “Jascha! This is my baby brother, William!”

        “Hello,” Jascha waved, and smiled shyly.

        “Also this is my dad,” Ernest gestured towards the older man, who, to Jascha’s horror, held out his hand. Jascha took it and was surprised by his firm grip, and felt compelled to make eye contact.

        “Alphonse Frankenstein,” The man said kindly.

        “Uhh, Jascha. Nice to meet you,” Jascha felt his anxiety spike as Alphonse analyzed his face, brow furrowing.

        “Jascha?” He asked. “Have we met before? You seem familiar.” Alphonse said thoughtfully, releasing Jascha’s hand.

        “Nope, I don’t think so,” Jascha said quickly. He shot Ernest a desperate look, only to find that he was talking to William.

        Ernest finally let go of his brother and, of all things, hugged his father. Jascha felt vaguely aware that he rarely ever touched his own father, let alone hug him. He’d taken Alphonse, for all his gravitas, as being a similar man. He was proven wrong when he saw him return the hug as if it were an expected, beloved thing.

        “Ernest, are you available to eat dinner with us?” William asked, pulling on his brother’s shirt. “Victor is home too! We could call Lizzie!”

        Ernest let go of his father and forced the look of disdain off his face, smiling sadly instead. “Sorry buddy, but I have to eat with the team tonight.” He ruffled William’s hair. Jascha knew that this, in fact, was a lie. The team had a lunch together at 1:30, but besides that Ernest was entirely free, though he’d suggested that he might go to an end of season party at one of the other frats.

        “You’ll come back for my birthday, though, right?” William’s eyes were wide and pleading, like a puppy asking for an extra treat.

        “Have I ever missed your birthday?” Ernest grinned. “I’ll def be there. Wouldn’t even miss it for the Olympics.” William beamed. Ernest looked over at Henry, a flash of worry crossing his eyes.

        Alphonse looked between Ernest and Henry, and then to William. “William, why don’t we head back to the car and bring it a bit closer for Henry?” He said gently. William nodded, and gave Ernest one more hug. He looked up at Jascha, seemingly amazed by what he saw.

        Jascha finally took a breath as William and Alphonse left. He knew he had to meet new people today, but he hadn’t expected Alphonse to find him familiar. He felt new worry start to bubble up in his stomach. What if there were other people who knew him, that he just couldn't remember? What about his own father?

        “Jascha, are you coming?” Ernest called, a heading towards a more secluded area under a tree with Henry. Jascha nodded and followed. Henry sat on the bench, and Ernest beside him. Jascha leaned up against the tree. After a moment of stony silence, Ernest placed a hand gently on Henry’s shoulder.

        “Are you okay?” He asked, his voice soft.

        “I’m okay, Ernest. Really.” Henry smiled, though the black eye and bruised jaw made his smile less credible. Ernest looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was looking, and pulled Henry into a hug. After a hesitation, Henry wrapped his arms around him.

        “I’m so sorry,” He said into Henry’s shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry.” Ernest’s voice trembled. “I couldn’t do anything. I just- I froze, and he got you. It’s all my fault, and-”  
“Ernest, this was absolutely not your fault,” Henry said firmly, rubbing Ernest’s back comfortingly. “It’s my sadistic father’s fault. And no one else’s.”

        “But I froze!” Ernest said miserably. “I couldn’t do anything. I wouldn’t have been able to do anything if Jascha hadn’t called Dad. I’m useless, and it got you hurt.”

        Henry shook his head. Subconsciously, Jascha stood up straighter and took a step towards Ernest as he got more upset. Henry looked over to him and smiled. “I’m safe now. That’s what matters,” Henry let Ernest sit up and wipe his eyes. “How are things between you two?”

        “What?” Ernest asked. Jascha looked away. Henry looked at Ernest, who now just looked nervous rather than miserable. “Things are, like, normal. We’re friends. Still roommates.” Jascha glared at a shrub.

        “Ernest, you can’t really expect to fool me, right?” Henry looked at hm pointedly. Jascha looked at him with surprise as Ernest stared at his hands and bounced his knee anxiously.

        “You can’t tell anyone,” Ernest said quickly, looking at Henry like a cornered animal. “Like, literally anyone.”

        Henry looked over to Jascha. “But things are going okay?” He asked gently, watching carefully as Jascha shrugged. Ernest looked at Jascha with a mix of betrayal and surprise. “What’s going on?”

        “Nope,” Ernest stood up. “I- we can’t talk about this here.” He looked frightened, and glanced between the soccer fields and the parking lot. “Dad could hear. Or William. Or literally anyone else. Things are normal. We aren’t- I’m not-” Ernest stumbled over his words as he met Jascha’s eyes. “I can’t talk about it. Not right now.” He sighed, and Jascha relaxed a little. That was better than what he’d expected Ernest to say when confronted.

        Henry stood and patted Ernest on the shoulder. “And that’s okay. Really, it’s completely fine. You can always call me when you want to talk,” he said with a gentle smile and soothing voice. “I’ll be around your house for...a while. Probably all winter break.”

        “Okay,” Ernest nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

        Henry turned to Jascha. “I, uh. I know we aren’t really that close, but I’m also happy to talk to you too. Ernest has my number, and I’m always happy to talk about music.”

        Jascha blinked and felt the life return to him. “You know about music?”

        “A bit, yeah.” Henry smiled. “I really like ballet.”

        “I do too,” Jascha felt himself smile.

        “Henry!” William called from the parking lot. “Ready to go?”

        “Yup!” Henry waved back. “I’ll see you both later.” He made eye contact with Ernest. “Call me. Really. We can try talking again, more privately.” Ernest nodded, and Henry walked back to the car.

        “Guess we should head back too,” Ernest said after a moment. He looked apologetically at Jascha. “I’m sorry…”

        “It’s okay,” Jascha’s expression softened. “I told you that you didn’t need to tell anyone else, and I meant it.” Ernest relaxed and gave him a weak smile. As they walked back to his car, Ernest stayed close enough to Jascha that their arms and hands occasionally brushed, leaving Jascha feeling warmed by the small gesture of affection. God knows he needed it to get into the car.

        Jascha was relieved that Ernest was happy to just ramble about the game on the ride back to the hotel. It was a welcome distraction from the constant replay of metal on metal that periodically snapped into Jascha’s head, and it made the stabbing paranoia he felt at each intersection or lane change tolerable. He was able to walk with Ernest back to their room instead of sprinting ahead and crying in the shower. He took a breath of relief as he heard Ernest close the door behind them, returning them to the safety of their room. Ernest was quiet now, and he heard him place his heavy soccer bag down near the door.

        “Jascha,” He heard Ernest say softly from behind him. He turned, and felt Ernest’s lips meet his and his arms wrap around his neck. “We won the game!” He whispered happily, “We should do something...” He kissed Jascha on the cheek before returning to his lips, who was more than happy to keep kissing him.

        “To celebrate?” Jascha offered between kisses. He slid his hands down Ernest’s sides, settling against his lower back. He parted his lips and let him deepen the kiss.

        “Yeah,” He felt Ernest push him backwards towards the bed, and sat down as he felt its edge against the back of his knees. He pulled Ernest down with him, and felt him straddle his lap. He massaged Ernest’s lower back and let his fingertips press under the hem of his shorts. He groaned as he felt Ernest’s lips pull away from his.

        “What do you want to do?” Jascha asked quietly. Ernest kissed him softly along his jawline. He swallowed hard, nervous but excited. “Pick up where we left off last night?”

        “Yes,” Ernest said breathlessly. “But I also need to shower.”

        “You have that team thing in an hour,” Jascha said gently, kissing a line along Ernest’s neck. “We don’t have time…”As he reached Ernest’s clavicle, he felt him take a sharp breath. Ernest leaned his head against his shoulder and ground his hips slightly. Even through their clothes Jascha could feel Ernest’s growing erection against his own.

        “Shower with me, then.” Ernest whispered. He stood up and pulled Jascha up with him, leading him over to the bathroom. He started the water and tested its temperature quickly before peeling off his clothes gracelessly and casting them into a corner. He caught Jascha hesitating. He was unsure of how he’d feel being seen under such bright lights, considering he still looked like a grotesque human marionette. Ernest pulled his sweater off, and stretched up to kiss him on the mouth. “Don’t worry,” Ernest whispered. “I don’t care about the scars.”

        After another second of hesitation, Jascha let himself be coaxed out of the rest of his clothes, with help from Ernest. Once in the shower, they were crammed against each other more out of lack of space than anything else, but he reveled in the closeness all the same. Ernest pressed him against the wall of the shower, smiling at him with dreamy, half-lidded eyes.

        “Kiss me,” Ernest commanded gently, his voice hardly more than a whisper. Jascha wrapped his arms around Ernest, kissing him hungrily. He felt one of Ernest’s hands against the back of his head, holding him in the kiss, while the other one slid from his chest down to his groin. He leaned his head against the wall and gasped as he felt Ernest touch him, and his lips pressed hot kisses against his neck. He ran a hand up Ernest’s back, massaging the tense muscles and holding him close. He felt Ernest’s teeth graze his skin as his other hand wrapped around Ernest’s cock and matched his pace.

        He felt himself get lightheaded and his face flush, surrendering himself to the feeling of Ernest’s hands and the heat of the shower against his skin. He felt a weight begin to lift as his anxiety and exhaustion washed down the drain, dissolving off of him with each kiss and each drop of water. He moved his hand from Ernest’s back to tilt his head up so he could meet his lips and see his face. He was enraptured by the look of bliss in Ernest’s dark eyes and blushed cheeks, seemingly uninhibited by any of his fears from last night or even an hour before. His cheeks were tinged red and his gaze was soft and heavy like velvet. The look of him alone enough to seduce Jascha over the edge, but he commanded himself to wait and savor the experience of having Ernest so intimately honest and vulnerable.

        Jascha grit his teeth to stifle a moan as Ernest’s grip tightened, and kissed him hard between his jaw and his neck as he was pressed harder against the wall. He could hear Ernest’s breath hitch and his body grow heavier against him as he grew more aroused, pressing kisses clumsily against his chest and neck. Jascha leaned his head back and dug his nails into Ernest’s back as he stopped being able to wait, his orgasm sending waves of warmth and pleasure through his body. For an ecstatic moment he felt like a real person; that his flesh and blood truly were his own. He kissed a heated line from Ernest’s temple to his shoulder, pumping his hand in more deliberate strokes as he felt Ernest get closer. Ernest gasped and grew harder in his grip as he left a mark on his collar bone, tangling his hands in Jascha’s hair. Ernest pressed his face against his neck, a breathless moan escaping his lips as he came against Jascha’s hand and stomach.

        Catching his breath, Jascha tilted his head down and kissed Ernest’s cheek and shoulder gently as he relaxed against him. The two basked in quiet contentment for several minutes, silent save for the constant white noise of the shower. Jascha kept his eyes closed and let the water run over his face, relishing the comfort and safety afforded to them by the bathroom and the anonymity of the hotel. It amazed him how much better everything felt when he didn’t have to worry about being overheard or caught by Mason. As Ernest disentangled himself from him, Jascha felt every inch of his absence as if it were a mile. He relaxed when he saw that Ernest was just reaching for his body wash, smiling as he returned to his arms.

        They bathed themselves wordlessly, communicating instead through interruptions for kisses and gentle touches. Ernest helped Jascha rinse the conditioner out of his hair, working out the tangles and kissing him along his hairline. Once they were both clean and rinsed, Jascha reluctantly shut off the water, throwing them into seemingly stifling silence. As they dried themselves, worry started creeping into the back of Jascha’s mind. Ernest hadn’t said anything. Did that mean he was unhappy, or was it because there was nothing to be said? Jascha remembered the complete fear of his own sexuality that Ernest had felt not more than a few days ago. He shook the images of Ernest retching and the sound of his crying from his head. He dried his hair and stole a glance at Ernest, who caught him looking and smiled at him warmly, immediately dispelling the unpleasant memories from Jascha’s mind.

        “I’m not going to panic,” Ernest said softly. “I know you’re worrying about it.”

        Jascha stopped drying his hair and wrapped the towel around his waist. He smiled and reached out, gently sweeping Ernest’s damp curls back from his eyes. Everything about him was so sweet and flawless, and he felt an almost unbearable desire to kiss every freckle on his cheeks. He scowled, however, as he saw a bruise on his ribs, and touched it lightly. “Is this from the game?”

        “Oh, yeah,” Ernest looked at it with a look of strange sadness. “It’s just a bruise.”

        “It looks bad,” Jascha said thoughtfully, running his fingers over it gently. It was a dark violet, about two inches wide. He was surprised when Ernest looked up at him with a twisted expression of pain and sadness, which dissolved as he saw the concern on Jascha’s face.

        “I, uh, don’t like talking about bad bruises,” He said quickly. “They, like, kinda freak me out.” Jascha moved his hand away from the mark and Ernest relaxed.

        “I’m sorry,” Jascha said quietly. “We can talk about something else.”  
After a moment, Ernest took a breath and his mood shifted. “Do you want me to drop you off at the library again?” Ernest asked as he walked out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom. “Or I can drop you back at the frat, since we should, like, go back there. Eventually.”

        “Library works. Can we spend one more night here?” Jascha asked, pulling on clean clothes and tying his damp hair in a loose knot.

        “Yeah, sure.” Ernest put on a pair of tailored dress pants and a fitted green button-down shirt that Jascha couldn’t remember him ever wearing before. He walked over to the full-length mirror and buttoned up the shirt, touching the little mark Jascha left on his neck and smirking slightly. “Dude, you gave me a hickey.”

        “I’m sorry,” Jascha sat on the bed. “Is it going to be a problem?”

        “Nah,” Ernest buttoned up last buttons on his shirt, covering up the mark. He grabbed a pair of dressy-looking shoes and sat beside Jascha to put them on. “Are you gonna do music stuff?”

        Jascha sighed. Was he? “Probably. I might just read a novel. What time are you going to come by and pick me up?”

        “Probs around three or three-thirty.” Ernest finished tying his shoes. “Will you be okay here if I go out with the team?”

        “Will you check books out for me?” Jascha asked. “If so, I’m okay here indefinitely.”

        “Fucking nerd,” Ernest said lightly. “I might, like, take a cab to campus after I get you. I think I might actually drink tonight.”  
“I thought you didn’t drink?” Jascha tried to keep the concern out of his voice.

        “I let myself get drunk sometimes when I’m off season. But only, like, once a month. It’s bad for your metabolism and stuff.” Ernest stood up. “Besides, I literally can’t make it through being home with Victor for a week without getting wasted with my sister. It’s the only time of the year we’re allowed to talk.”

        “‘Allowed’? That can’t be healthy,” Jascha said skeptically.

        “Listen, living with Victor and his rules isn’t healthy, but I have to follow them if I want to survive peacefully.” Ernest said darkly. “And I only get to be alone with Lizzie in our house once a year, per unspoken agreement with Victor. So, we get drunk on strawberry vodka.”

        “Why stay for a whole week, then? If it just makes you miserable.” Jascha pulled on his sneakers. “This can’t be good for you.”

        “I promised William I’d stay for a whole week.” Ernest sighed. “It doesn’t matter if it’s good for me if it makes Will happy. And I, like, really miss my dad.”

        “Have you tried maybe not being alone with them?” Jascha asked. “There’s got to be a middle ground. Like, invite one of your teammates over or something. As a buffer.”

        Ernest’s eyes grew wide. “Holy shit. You’re right.”

        “I am?” Jascha asked, surprised.

        “Dude, Jascha,” Ernest beamed at him. “You should come home with me.”

        “Absolutely not,” Jascha said defensively.

        “Why not?” Ernest frowned. “You’re friends with Henry, and, like, Victor will probably just ignore you. He hates strangers.” He took Jascha’s hand. “You’re a classical music guy, so my dad will fucking adore you. You’re also kind of a giant dork, so you’ll get along great with Will.”

        “I don’t know,” Jascha looked away. He couldn’t easily explain that he and Victor weren’t strangers, so he wasn’t going to try. “I don’t want to impose.”

        “My dad loves guests,” Ernest urged. “I never really bring my friends over anymore, because Victor is a crazy psychopath, but I think you’ll be fine.”

        “Don’t you need to go to your team thing?” Jascha looked at him, desperately trying to escape. He had no idea how he got into this conversation, and he wanted to leave.

        “I do.” Ernest yielded. “Think about it, though. You have like a week to decide.”

        Jascha looked at him miserably. “I’ll consider it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry and William read from is Book 16 of the Iliad translated by Ian Johnson.  
> The full text can be found here: http://johnstoniatexts.x10host.com/homer/iliad_title.html


	24. Parties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry is gay about stars. Victor is pitiful. Jascha drives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! As always, we appreciate you reading this! Kudos and comments are a great way of letting us know if you liked it!
> 
> Trigger warnings in this section for descriptions of injury following a car accident.

 

        “Good morning, sunshine,” Henry said as he sat on the arm of the couch near Victor’s head. He pushed a strand of soft, clean hair off his forehead.

        “I wasn’t asleep,” Victor grumbled. Henry spent a moment admiring his face. The past few days of behaving like a normal human being were doing wonders for his health. His skin was no longer a vampiric gray and his eyelashes brushed a bit of color to his cheeks. He looked at the ceiling. Faded stars slowly rotated with blurry name tags and lines connecting them into constellations.

        “It’s been such a long time since we’ve used that,” Henry mused. “Scooch over, I want in on the action.” Victor smiled as he nestled himself between the couch cushions and his body. In truth, it hurt. It hurt a lot. The point in his ribs that gave him trouble screamed at him to stop, but the warmth and safety of Victor was worth it. Maybe he should tell Alphonse? There wasn’t really much he could do about a broken rib other than worry the people who love him. Yeah, he would probably just wait until someone else figured it out for themselves. Alphonse would hate the see his bruises anyway. They were too similar to, well...to the worst thing.

        Henry wasn’t so much lying next to Victor as he was half on top of him. He would have been embarrassed if Alphonse and William hadn’t already disappeared to their rooms. He felt Victor press two fingers into the tender part of his wrist.

        “I promise my heart’s not going to give out on you,” Henry whispered.

        “I just like knowing that you’re alive,” Victor held his hand and rubbed small circles into the pad of Henry’s thumb.

        “I am alive. I’ll keep being alive, I promise,” Henry raised his eyes to see the constellations. “There are the Pleiades.”

        “They’ve always been your favorite,” Victor smiled and put on his best brilliant scientist voice. “The Pleiades are a young open cluster in the constellation Taurus, the bull,” Henry laughed and pulled him closer. “While only six or seven of the stars are visible to the naked eye, there are more than a thousand stars inside the reflections nebula.” Henry kissed the corner of Victor’s mouth. “And none of those stars are brighter than you.”

        “You’re a nerd,” Henry smiled and felt the sunlight on his face. It cast a halo of light through Victor’s hair. “Δέδυκε μεν ἀ σελάννακαὶ Πληΐαδεσ, μέσαι δὲνύκτεσ πάρα δ᾽ ἔρχετ᾽ ὤρα,ἔγω δὲ μόνα κατεύδω,”

        “I forgot you did Greek,” Victor nuzzled into Henry’s chest and he pressed a kiss to the base of his neck.

        “It was a long time ago,” Henry waved it away. “The only thing it’s good for is gay poetry and the Iliad.”

        “The Iliad is pretty gay,” Victor laughed like wind chimes and bells. “What does it mean?”

        “Oh, something like,  the Moon and the Pleiades have left, it is midnight and the hours pass, and I still lie alone . I don’t know. Like I said, it’s been a long time.” Henry rest his head on Victor’s shoulder. “Did you know the Greeks and Romans associated the constellation with homosexuality?”

        “No?” Victor asked, voice rising to urge him on.

        “It kinda sucks because we don’t know much about it because...you know...catholicism. I was reading an article once that argued each of the stars was represented as a stripe on the flag. I’m not quite sure if I buy it, but it’s an interesting thought.”

        “That’s weird,” Victor mused, “How do you even jump to that conclusion?”

        “Oh, it was something like, the seven stars represent the seven daughters of Atlas which represent the virtues. Each of them are represented as holding a colored candle,” Henry kissed Victor’s cheek and smiled when he cocked his head. If it was more information he wanted, then he would gladly have it. “ Let’s see if I can remember this correctly. Electra is red for strength and Alcyone orange for courage. Asterope is yellow for faith, Celaeno, green for mercy, Maia, blue for generosity. Taygete is violet for hope,”

        “I thought you said there were seven sisters?” Victor asked.

        “There’s one more,” Henry closed his eyes and a pang of sadness rising in his chest. “Merope is for justice, but most of the time she doesn’t have a candle because she can’t be seen.” Henry could feel Victor frown against him.

        “One day,” he said stroking Henry’s hair. “One day you’ll have justice.”

        “One day soon, hopefully,” Henry said, leaning into Victor’s touch. He could revel in the warmth and love forever. “I told a reporter everything.”

        “Everything?” Victor asked.

        “Everything.” The weight of the word settled on his chest. There was no taking back what had happened. Victor tensed and pulled Henry close to him.

        “Are you going to be safe?”

        Henry put his head on Victor’s shoulder and closed his eyes. Stillness washed over him as he felt the rise and fall of Victor’s breathing. His heart beat under his hands, steady and sure. Was he safe? Probably not. He’d never really be safe until his father was either dead or in prison and certainly no prison would take Lawrence Clerval. Was he as safe as possible? Yes. Alphonse could protect him and he had a place to stay. It was enough. But still, he couldn’t lie to Victor. Not about something like this.

        “I’m being very careful, but I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Henry sighed and held Victor. “I’m glad I have you with me. There’s no one I trust more on this entire planet.”

 

* * *

 

        Victor was more than happy to lay with Henry and let his warmth sing through him softly. The bruises, he knew, still lurked, treacherous blue and deep on Henry’s side, preventing Victor from accomplishing what he actually wanted, which was to wrap his entire body around Henry’s and cocoon the man away from any evil which may be lurking. But for now it was enough just to feel him there.

        His presence had a way of calming Victor’s spiraling mind and he took comfort in the reprieve it brought even for a brief moment. Henry pushed the worries from Victor’s mind and gave answer to others. And the ones that still remained, well. Victor couldn’t trouble the little peace Henry had managed to find with such doubts as Ernest and sex. That wasn’t fair. So he watched the ceiling and let Henry talk about mythos and men and, in the moments where he stilled, Victor threw in random facts about space travel and dwarf stars. When his worries returned, he brushed them aside by imagining himself murdering Lawrence Clerval, as was quickly becoming one of his favorite pastimes.

        “Victor.” Victor blinked back to awareness, registering the sudden absence of warmth beside him. A flit of panic invaded his chest as he patted the empty space where Henry should be only to register William looking down on him.

        “What?” Shoving his panic aside, Victor sat up on his elbows to face the kid. “What is it?”

        “Just supposed to tell you dinner’s in ten.” William said. “Were you asleep?”

        “No.”

        “You looked asleep.”

        “Well I wasn’t.” Victor stood and brushed the creases out of his t-shirt.

        William frowned at him. “I thought vampires didn’t sleep.”

        “I’m not a vampire.”

        “So you say.”

        Victor rolled his eyes. “Where’s Henry?”

        “In the bathroom, washing up. He just finished helping me with some history homework.” Apparently undeterred, William lingered at Victor’s elbow as he made his way towards the dining room table. “So if you’re not a vampire, what are you? Alien? Changeling? You kinda look like a reanimated bog body.”

        Victor shot him a deeply poisonous glare. “Don’t you have better things to do? Go set the table or something.”

        “Already did.” William quipped. He sprung in front of Victor, startling the taller man back, and tented his fingers in front of his face. “So. Bog body. Ye or nay?”

        Victor narrowed his eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know, afraid of me?”

        “Why would I be?”

        “‘Cause I’m your insane, mysterious older brother. I’m sure Ernest must have told you all the horror stories by now.”

        William shrugged. “Well...I was sorta afraid of you. Then I realized you’re just dumb and always panicking about Uncle Henry being hurt so. Not so scary. Plus if Uncle Henry likes you so much, you must be at least partially okay.”

        “I’m not dumb.”

        “Yeah you are.”

        “No.” Victor emphasized as he took his place at the table. “I’m not.”

        “Yeah. You are.” William sat across from him. “It’s funny.”

        “I graduated summa cum laude in biochemistry and am currently on my way to being a neurological surgeon. You better hope I’m not dumb because one day I might be splitting your skull open.”

        William grinned at him sharply. “How long did it take you to tell Henry you liked him again?”

        To his credit, Victor did not leap across the table, if only because it was at that moment that his father entered the room carrying a plate of pork and a pointed glare for his two sons. Victor reluctantly settled himself back in the dining room chair. Catching William’s eye, he drew one finger across his throat. The boy just smiled wider, the perfect picture of innocence.

        “Henry!” His father called over one shoulder. “Dinner!”

        “One moment!” Henry returned. “Start without me!”

        That was worrisome. Especially since Henry had been favoring his one side earlier. Victor wondered if the bruises were bothering him more than usual. With the pattern they created, it might be possible that Henry had a cracked rib.

        His father sat down at the table and began to ladle bits of meat onto his plate. Victor, occupied with making faces at William, almost missed when his name was said.

        “Yes,” Victor glanced to his father, who did not look up.

        “I said I’ve arranged for you to go talk to Dr. Konig tomorrow. We’ll be heading over to his office in the morning before my meeting at noon. Leaving around seven. When do you need me to wake you up?”

        Victor tensed in his seat, body instantly ready to run at the name. Under William’s concerned gaze, however, he forced himself to relax, tugging his strained muscles apart as if with his fingers. “Konig?” He kept his voice purposefully light as he accepted the platter of food offered to him. “What are we doing there?”

        “You’ll be meeting with him for a psychosocial assessment and to talk about the intensive outpatient program he recommended to me over the phone earlier.”

        Still no eye contact. Victor felt his heart leap into his mouth. “So...I won.”

        Finally, his father looked up. He raised an eyebrow.

        “I mean-” Victor stumbled over his words, “I- I’m so happy you decided to consider my recommendation.”

        “Yes, well.” His father’s voice was short and clipped. “It didn’t sound like you were giving me much of a choice when you ‘recommended’ it.”

        “I…” Victor trailed. A heavy strain seemed to have descended over the table. Victor felt it acutely, pinning his hands to the hard mahogany and forcefully pulling his gaze from his father to his plate. “Thank you.” He finally managed to force out. “You won’t regret this.”

        “I know that I won’t.” His father said. “Because this is your last chance.”

        It was a loaded statement. A fall of the gavel, in one way, a challenge in another.

        “Sorry about that.” Henry said as he shimmed into the seat beside Victor. Victor felt the moment Henry registered the shift in the room by the taking of his hand under the tablecloth. “Is everything, uh,” Henry tried to catch William’s averted gaze, “okay?”

        “Just fine.” His father’s voice had returned to lightness. As if the conversation had never even happened. Henry squeezed his hand. “We were talking about plans for tomorrow. Victor and I are heading out early. I hope that won’t be bothersome to you.”

        “Of course not. What are you both doing, if you don’t mind me asking?”

        “Just figuring some things out before Ernest comes home for break. We’re stopping by Dr. Konig’s office.”

        “Oh, I see.” Understanding colored Henry’s words. His voice dropped an octave. “Victor, are you-”

        “So how was Ernest’s game?” Victor rushed over him. He stabbed a piece of meat and shoved it in his mouth. “I heard that Chicago kicked ass! Or, well, I didn’t hear, but I assumed.”

        “Victor, language.” His dad said.

        Silence returned to the table, thick and cold and oppressive. Victor squirmed in his seat and shot a desperate look to William and Henry in turn.

        “It, um,” William attempted a cheerful grin, “they did really well! Ernest won with a penalty shot after the other team tied it up. It was pretty intense.”

        “Oh really?” Victor had no idea what a penalty shot entailed. “Super cool, super cool.”

        “Yeah! He was really happy! And we got to meet one of Ernest’s new friends, Jascha, and-”

        “Well, I’m full.” Victor stood abruptly and picked up his still cluttered plate. “I’m going to hit the hay. Early day tomorrow and all.” He hesitated before bending down and planting a kiss on Henry’s soft hair. “See you in a bit.”

        He didn’t give his lover time to respond before scrambling, rather inelegantly, from the room. After dumping his dish in the sink, he walked up the stairs and crawled into his bed. He would have to rise again, he knew. He was still fully dressed and when Henry appeared, he would ask Victor for details of the conversation which Victor would give to him because he wasn’t allowed to lie to Henry and then they would get ready for bed and Henry would lay entwined with Victor and he would feel his heartbeat and Victor would kiss his neck and ask about his ribs and eventually they would drift off together. But for now, he was alone and so he was allowed to be as stupid and reckless as he wanted.

        Therefore, Victor stood up. Peeled off his shirt and flung open the window. It had been years since he’d attempted to crawl on the roof, but he needed to do something and this was an action Henry couldn’t be too mad at him for. He could just tell him he wanted to see the constellations in person if he was caught.

        Victor crawled on the desk in front of the window and tested his weight against the gutters. It would...probably hold. He stepped out, bracing his hands against the roof tiles and crawling along the siding. This was definitely easier to do when he was in better health and immensely easier to do as a teenager, Victor decided, but nevertheless, he made it to the flat part of the roof above the sunroom.

        Much like the stars in the dying constellation machine, the freezing evening air offered only partial views and faded patterns. The frost against his chest instantly knocked the air from Victor’s lungs and set a tingle in his bare fingers. He relished it, holding onto a cold so different from Henry’s warmth.

        He was a bad person. He was getting better, he thought; he was trying, but he was still a bad person. It made sense that he should suffer a little when the past few days had just been so kind. Henry was too kind. William was too kind. Even his father was too kind. Not that Victor wanted to be locked up again, but…

        He needed to be punished a bit. And if no one was intent on punishing him right now, he would just have to do it himself.

        Victor sat in the cold for exactly thirty-nine minutes before crawling back into his room. Downstairs, he could hear dishes being washed in the sink and the high pitch of William’s voice excitedly telling some story about Achilles. He wandered down the hall and climbed in the shower. By the time he was done, he was warm enough that Henry would never be able to tell he’d been outside.

 

* * *

  

        Jascha had fallen asleep after reading the first hundred pages of  War and Peace , in Russian. Ernest had looked at him as if he had three heads when he’d asked him to check it out, along with the English version and a book of Tchaikovsky’s letters, but he needed to read it. His shredded memory informed him that it had been paramount that he read  War and Peace  in his father’s tongue, so here he was. Passed out in a hotel room at 2AM with the book in his lap. He startled as the cell phone Ernest bought him (against his will) rang. He had no idea how to use it, but he pressed the little green phone button.

        “Jascha!” Ernest yelled. Jascha could hear loud pop music playing in the background, overlaid by men shouting and women laughing.

        “Ernest,” Jascha said, still trapped by sleep. “What’s up?”  
        “Jascha,” Ernest slurred, “Dude. I need you to like. Pick me up. I-I think there was like a lot more vodka in the punch? Is there normally vodka in punch? I thought- Listen. Listen. My keys are in the room.”

        Jascha was definitely awake now. “Have you called a cab?” He asked gently.

        “Yeah, for sure. But, like. It’s super late, and I don’t have cash on me anymore? I think maybe I spent it on something but I can’t remember…” Ernest’s voice trailed off. “And I miss you! You should come get me.”

        Jascha stood up and the huge novel fell to the floor. “I, uh. Ernest, I don’t have a license.” He started to pace.

        “Dude. Use mine. Oh, fuck!” Jascha heard Ernest collide with something hard; a desk, maybe. “Can you please come?”

        “Is there a designated driver?” Jascha ran a hand through his hair.

        “Uhhh, I think our driver is like, doing body shots off one of the sorority girls. One sec,” Ernest pulled away from the phone slightly, but Jascha could still hear him. “Liam! Liam, is Carson- Yeah, okay. Okay, cool. Does he, like, have a condom?” Jascha swallowed hard. “Okay. So yeah. Carson was gonna drive but he’s, uh. You know.”

        “Yeah, okay,” Jascha sighed. “Where are your keys?”

        “On the dresser,” Ernest said, almost coherently. “Dude, I haven’t been this drunk since...like, the first time Lizzie got me drunk. Is it normally like this?” He heard Ernest gasp. “Is this how Victor feels?! When he goes and does dumb stuff?”

        “I don’t know?” Jascha said anxiously. “Ernest, are you safe?”

        “Yeah, dude. I’m with the team!” Ernest said happily. “I love them so much.”

        “Okay, cool.” Jascha picked up the keys as if they were a biohazard. “Where are you?”

        “Uhhh...Like, the frat that’s down the road and to the left of our frat…” Ernest paused. “I, like. Okay. Just come get me from our frat. I’ll walk.”  
        “Absolutely not.” Jascha said firmly.

        “It’s fine! I can walk. It’s only two blocks.” Ernest tried to sound reassuring, but he just sounded wasted. “I don’t know the address. Carson’s the one who, like, lives here, but apparently,” Ernest giggled, “Apparently he’s, like, y’know. Getting it. From a girl.”

        “That is typically how frat parties go.” Jascha tried not to snap.

        “No, like,  the  girl.” Ernest stressed. “Ashley.”

        “What? She’s there?” Jascha stopped cold in the hallway.

        “Yeah. She’s like, obsessed with soccer or something. Made full eye contact with me before, like,” Ernest paused to say hi to someone, “Pouring vodka on her stomach or whatever and letting Carson drink it.”

        “Ernest, that’s not good,” Jascha started walking again.

        “I mean, he has a condom so like it’s not that bad, right?” Ernest must have stepped outside, because the music was quieter. “Yo, some of the dudes from football just showed up! Their season must have ended, too.”

        “Who’s there?” Jascha was in the parking lot, struggling with getting the courage to go into the car without Ernest.

        “Like, some bros from the frat. I see Brendon and Mason. Hey, man!” Ernest must have greeted one or both of them. Jascha felt the surge of fear for Ernest’s safety overtake his fear of the car as he got into the driver’s side. “Yo, Jascha, I’m-” Silence.

        “Ernest?” Jascha called into the phone, “Ernest!” No answer. In a flush of panic he started the car, digging his nails into the leather steering wheel as he turned to get out of the parking lot.

        It was a thirty minute drive back to campus from the hotel. He knew the drive from having seen Ernest do it, and he let muscle memory guide his hand. When the waves of fear or pain hit him in the city, he focused on the need to get Ernest as far away from Mason as possible, if only for one more night. He made it back to the center of campus, and then to the frat, and drove slowly until he could hear the sounds of the party. Once he could hear it he could follow it, and he did. He was glad Ernest hadn’t walked, since it was nearly a mile away from their frat.

        He parked as close as he could, which was about a block down from the actual house. He got out and locked the car. He walked towards the party, hands deep in his pockets. As he got closer, he heard something glass break, and with it he broke into a jog until he reached the doorstep. A blond girl in a tube top let him in, eying him up and down. She said something unintelligible to him- maybe she asked which team he was on? He couldn’t hear her. He looked for anyone he recognized from soccer. He found Liam, who was unfortunately talking to Brenden.  He wished himself invisible as the two noticed him.

        “Yo, Jascha,” Brendon shouted over the music. “‘Sup?

        “Uh, nothing,” Jascha replied curtly. “Hey, Liam.”

        “Hey,” Liam gave him an awkward smile. “You looking for Ernest?”

        Jascha’s eyes darted to Brendon, who kept his gaze steady on him. He looked back to Liam. “Is he around?”

        “Jascha!” He heard from behind him. Liam and Brendon looked past his shoulder, and after a second he did the same. Ernest was coming in from outside, beaming at him with flushed cheeks and a red solo cup in hand. “I saw my car outside and I was like, I didn’t drive!” Ernest closed the distance between them and reached an arm over his shoulders. Jascha felt every muscle in his body tense. “Hey, Brendon! Glad you could make it!” He said with a genuine smile. Jascha wanted to die, seeing the gears turning in Brendon’s as of yet unintoxicated mind.

        “Hey,” Brendon said, almost thoughtfully.

        “Yo, Liam, do you, like, need a ride home?” Ernest asked. “Jascha volunteered to be our driver, since Carson’s, you know…” More giggles.

        “I’m, uh,  probably gonna stay a little longer,” Liam looked up at Brendon, who practically towered over him. “I think I’ll catch a ride back with Brendon and Mason.”

        Ernest frowned. “Ah, okay. Be safe, my man.” Ernest leaned his head against Jascha’s shoulder, and Jascha felt the impulse to push him off. “We should go. I’m, like, pretty much gone. I’ll see you around,” Ernest waved to Liam as they turned to walk away.

        “When are you coming back to the frat, huh?” Brendon called. Jascha froze, and Ernest looked up at him in confusion. Jascha looked over his shoulder. His heart nearly stopped as he saw Mason appear from the patio and lock eyes with him across the room.

        “Jascha, what’s-” Ernest started.

        “We need to go,” Jascha muttered, and ushered Ernest out of the front door.

        Jascha glanced periodically over his shoulder as he guided the stumbling Ernest back to the car. He didn’t feel himself breathe until he was sure they weren’t followed. He helped Ernest into the passenger’s seat, buckling him in.

        “Dude, I wish you’d been there,” Ernest mumbled, reaching for Jascha’s hands as he tried to buckle him in. “Ashley was like. So mean. She said, like, Victor-level mean things.”   
        “Shh,” Jascha glanced again over his shoulder before closing Ernest’s door and getting into the Driver’s seat.

        “Jascha,” Ernest said, almost urgently. “Jascha!”

        “What?” Jascha tried not to sound sharp, but he knew he did. He turned to Ernest, who reached for his face. He flinched away. “What are you doing?”

        Ernest frowned. “I wanted to kiss you.”

        “What? No,” Jascha said with disbelief, “Not here. Never here.”

        “But,” Ernest slurred as Jascha started the car. “I wanna.” Jascha drove exactly ten miles per hour faster than the speed limit on the residential road. Ernest pointed as they passed the frat, “Hey! That’s where we live. Where are we going?”

        “Back to the hotel.” Jascha didn’t look at him. He dug his nails deep into the steering wheel and tried to ignore the throbbing needle-pain of his hips and thighs.

        “Right,” Ernest nodded. “I’m gonna- I wanna sleep. For a minute.” He leaned his head against the wall of the car, and Jascha was thankful for the quiet for a few minutes.

        He made it maybe half of the way down the highway before a car sped past him at about a hundred miles per hour, throwing him over the edge. He could practically feel the other car slam into his femur at full force, shattering the bone and severing the muscles and tendons as if they were butter. He veered off to the side of the road, slamming the hazard lights on as he practically fell out of the car and vomited. He clutched his thigh, his vision flashing between the image of his healthy, denim-clothed legs, and one of his black dress pants drenched a darkened red by blood, cleaved through by the front of a car. He must have screamed, because he felt Ernest grab him.

        “Jascha,” Ernest called, “Jascha!”

        “ Помоги мне,” Jascha heaved, “Отец, помоги! Tėve, prašau! Help, I can’t- They’re stuck-!” Jascha felt himself blinded by the pain, seeing only the front of an unfamiliar truck crushed between his father’s car and his legs. “Отец, Отец!”

        Ernest must have gotten out of the wreck, because he was in front of him now. He knelt down and wrapped him in a tight hug, clutching his head against his chest as he hyperventilated. “Jascha, calm down. It’s okay, I have you.” Ernest still slurred his speech a little, but he was here and he smelled like their soap. Jascha closed his eyes and held onto him for dear life.

        “Мне жаль,” Jascha sobbed into Ernest’s jacket, “Прости папа, I ruined your car…aš atsiprašau, please don’t tell Mom.”

        “Jascha, please tell me what’s happening,” Ernest stroked his hair, and Jascha could feel him trembling with him. “Please, tell me how to help. I- I can’t understand-” He felt Ernest kiss the top of his head. He drew a shaky breath.

        “I- Please, Ernest. Just- touch my thighs and tell me if they’re there.” Jascha felt like his femurs had both been cut in half lengthwise. He could feel the deep, cracking ache all the way up his spine. He gasped in relief as he felt Ernest’s hands against the tops of his thighs, dispelling whatever hallucinatory pain was there. The crushed car couldn’t be real if he could feel Ernest’s hands. He drew several deep breaths.

        “Are you okay?” He could hear Ernest’s voice breaking. “Jascha, are you okay?”

        He nodded against Ernest’s chest. “Yup. Yeah.” He relaxed as he felt Ernest’s hands massage up and down the length of his thigh. He still had his legs.

        “Are you sure? You were- god, you were screaming, in- in, I don’t even know, Russian? Some other language? It was like you were possessed or something…” Ernest tucked his chin against the top of Jascha’s head. “Are you, like, okay? For real?”

        “We have another five minutes of highway.” Jascha said flatly. “I need to drive another five minutes, right?”

        “Uh, yeah. Hotel is, like, real close.”

        “Okay,” Jascha drew a final breath before sitting up and wiping his eyes. “Okay. Get back in the car. I just want to get back to the hotel.”

        “Y-yeah, okay. No problem.” Ernest gave his legs a final squeeze and crossed over to the passenger’s seat. Jascha forced himself back behind the steering wheel, closing the door behind him. He gathered his spirits and turned on the car, pulling them back into the near-empty highway.

        Ernest was right; there really was only about another five minutes before they were safely parked in the hotel parking lot. Once they were parked, Jascha made himself stay by the car to help Ernest out, who was still unstable on his feet. He let him hold onto his arm for support, even though the guy at the front desk raised an eyebrow at them. By the time they were back in the room it was nearly three-thirty. He closed and locked the door behind them, both the chain lock and the main lock. Ernest flopped onto the bed.

        “Dude, the whole room is swirling. Is this-Am I, like, really drunk? Am I gonna have a hangover?” Ernest stared at the ceiling. Jascha changed out of his clothes and into his pajamas and climbed into bed next to him.

        “Have you never been hungover?” Jascha wanted desperately to curl up against Ernest, but he still wasn’t completely sure if that was okay. He swept his curls out of his face instead.

        “Nope.” Ernest said with a sleepy smile. “Never. I don’t drink like that.”

        “Lucky,” Jascha said softly. The first time he was hungover was in college. Jello shots. He thought they were just food, and he was very wrong. “It’s not pleasant.”

        Ernest rolled over and  draped  an arm lazily across Jascha’s chest. “I’ll have you to keep me safe,” He slurred quietly. “You’re, like, the fuckin’ best. I love you, man.” He nestled in against Jascha’s chest. “Fuckin’ love you so much.”

        Jascha wrapped his arms around Ernest and felt his whole body sink against the mattress, feeling the surety of his safety at last. “I’ll take care of you,” Jascha rubbed gentle circles into Ernest’s shoulder.

        “I’m, like, so glad you’re okay. And alive.” Ernest said softly, his voice almost clear. “I was so worried at the car. I’m so glad you’re here. Whatever happened before, I’m so happy you lived and I met you.”

        “I…” Jascha felt his words choke in his throat. He felt Ernest’s breathing even out and grow heavy as he fell asleep. He reached for the bedside lamp and shut it off. “Are you awake?” He whispered, to no answer. He sighed. “I am too. Glad I...lived. I think I’m- I think I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations for the Russian and Lithuanian:  
> Помоги мне: Help me  
> Отец, помоги: Dad, help  
> Tėve, prašau: Father, please   
> Мне жаль: I'm sorry  
> Прости папа: Sorry dad  
> aš atsiprašau: I'm sorry


	25. Love and Cruelty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry is nervous. Victor goes to therapy. Jascha resorts to violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! As always, thanks for sticking with us! We appreciate your feedback/comments/kudos! 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: This chapter has sexual assault and violence in it, as well as homophobic slurs.

       Dinner was a complete mystery. Alphonse seemed fine, but William seemed nervous and Victor...well, Victor was just weird. Not in his normal eccentric scientist sort of way, but like he was very clearly hiding something. In any other circumstance Henry would have jumped after him and ask what’s wrong, but he already knew.

       Alphonse met Jascha. That was a problem. How on earth do they, or anyone else, deal with that? Obviously Alphonse knew who Jascha was, if he really was Juilliard’s rising star, and it wouldn’t be that much of a stretch to assume that Alphonse also knew Jascha Simonis was supposed to be very, very dead. Are they supposed to lie and say it’s a weird coincidence? Do they tell the truth and run the risk that he’ll think Victor has actually lost it this time? Do they tell the truth and let god knows who do god knows what to Jascha because he’s technically a reanimated corpse?

       Thought after thought raced through Henry’s head. In the background he was vaguely aware that Alphonse was talking to him and he was answering convincingly enough not to look suspicious.

       And then there was the matter with Dr. Konig. Weight and darkness settled on Henry’s shoulders. If it was something they had to do before Ernest gets home then there was no hope for a happy outcome. Still, Henry would have wished Alphonse gave them a day to say goodbye. It would have been a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

       Henry could hear the roof creaking somewhere deeper in the house. He loved Victor to pieces, but he really lacked subtlety of all types. Alphonse and William talked about school and the history homework and all sorts of little things. Henry itched to be able to run upstairs and climb out that window and throw a blanket over Victor’s shoulders. It was cold and the wind was probably bitter against his skin. What were the odds that Victor remembered to put on a jacket? Slim to none.

       Henry really, truly tried to listen when William started talking about Achilles, but it was too difficult to make his internal monologue shut the hell up. There were so many things he had to talk to Victor about before he left. The words stuck in his head. Before he left. Henry sighed and both Alphonse and William's eyes snapped to him.

       “Is everything alright?” Alphonse asked.

       “I...umm yeah,” Henry stammered. “May I please be excused?”

       “Of course,” Alphonse gave him the look. It was the kind of look where Henry could tell he was trying to figure out what exactly was going on.

       “I can take your plate, Uncle Henry,” William said.

       “Thanks, bud,” Henry smiled and ruffled William’s hair.

       Henry didn’t go straight to Victor’s room, as much as he wanted to. Something felt deeply out of place, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. He wandered to the bathroom and turned on the cold water from the sink. Everything was going to be okay. Victor would come back and he would be okay. He was okay last time, for the most part. There was absolutely no need to panic. Henry took a deep breath and a spasm of electricity seared through his side. He instinctively grabbed it with his hand, but it only made it worse.

       He made a noise and realised he was on his knees, doubled over. He had to be quiet. Alphonse already had to deal with Victor and Victor had to deal with Konig and William was eleven. What did it matter? He deserved this. It was a just punishment for being a bad son, a bad friend, and a bad person. If he could just endure then pain would go away. Why was it so bad this time? Probably because he had been doing absolutely nothing to take care of himself.

       Henry relaxed his arms and let the pain wash over him. It was calm and familiar and evil and he deserved it. He deserved it for putting Victor, Ernest, and William in danger. He deserved it for tearing apart his family. He deserved it for enabling Victor’s self destructive habits. He deserved all of it.  He tried to breath in between sobs, in and out, just like he always said to Victor, but it didn’t work. It only burned.

       “Henry?” There was a knock on the door. He couldn’t tell who it was.

       “I’m fine,” he said, trying to sound calm, but he really was never good at lying.

       “May I please come in?” It was Alphonse. Henry couldn’t find the words in his throat to be able to say yes, but after a moment of silence, he entered anyway. He knelt down next to Henry and placed his hand on his back. The warmth and weight of it brought Henry back down to earth.

       “I’m sorry,” Henry said. “I’m sorry I’m doing this to you. I’m sorry I’m doing this to Victor. I’m just...sorry.” Alphonse said nothing and just rubbed his back until he touched a part of the bruising and Henry flinched.

       “Are you hurt?” he asked, his low baritone voice rumbling through Henry’s chest. He considered for a moment that he could lie. He could say that everything’s fine and it had just been a tough week, but Alphonse wasn’t a fool. Silence stuck in his throat like blood. “I can help you, but I need to know what’s wrong.”

       Henry had to speak. He must. “He kicked me. A lot. And I’ve been...” he took a deep breath even though he knew it would hurt. God, he was sick. “I’ve been irresponsible.”

       Alphonse nodded and continued to rub the uninjured part of his back. “I know this is difficult for you, but can you let me see it?” Henry was hoping for any other question than that one.

       “No, no, no, no, you’ll hate it,” Henry stammered.

       “Of course I’ll hate it. I hate the man who hurts you like this,” Alphonse said gently. “But I need to see if it’s hospital worthy or not. I want to get you the help you need.”

       Henry clenched his eyes shut and took off his shirt. He imagined it probably looked worse than it did before. He had also forgotten to see anyone about his arm, so that was just gonna be a huge, ugly scar forever, he supposed. He could feels Alphonse’s gaze on him. If he opened his eyes he might see pain or fear or memory, so he opted to keep them closed.

       “Does it hurt when you inhale?” he asked.

       “Yes,” Henry said.

       “And it hurts when you move a lot?”

       “Yes.”

       “Okay, Alphonse tried to look Henry in the eyes, to no avail. “So, I’m not a doctor, but I think your rib is cracked. Now, as long as it’s just a crack and you take care of yourself, there’s nothing much a doctor can do. However, if it’s actually broken then we have bigger problems to worry about.”

       Henry nodded weakly. “You don’t have to--”

       “I can’t tell the extent of your injury, so how about this? After I deal with Victor tomorrow, we’ll get you an appointment to deal with this and maybe while I’m at it, I can look for a therapist.” Alphonse’s tone was comforting  and safe, but Henry still tensed up.

       “I...I don’t think I can do that anymore. I just had forgotten...exactly how bad…” There weren't really any other words that Henry could find. The thought of talking to some random stranger about everything that had happened filled him with a unique kind of dread that wrapped tendrils around his heart. Logically, the person would probably be perfectly nice and kind and had a wonderful degree and people making sure they follow the rules, but fear doesn’t know logic. Not in the slightest.

       “I know. I know,” Alphonse tried to comfort him. “I think it’s still worth a try, okay?”

       Henry nodded, he did really have the capacity, now or ever, to argue with Alphonse especially when he was probably right. “Can I please put my shirt back on? I just don’t want you to have to look at me.”

       “Why would that matter?” Alphonse asked. Henry could hear something change in his voice.

       “It’s just...I know. I know it looks like what happened to Caroline,” Henry managed to open his eyes. Alphonse’s pain didn’t register on his face, but even he couldn’t keep it out of his eyes.

       “It...does,” Alphonse handed Henry his shirt. “I’m going to make sure everything will be okay this time.” He hugged him and held his shoulders before turning towards the door. “I think Victor is waiting for you.”

       Henry nodded, “Yeah. He probably is.”

       Alphonse urged Henry to his feet and walked with him to Victor’s door. As he left, Henry turned around and gave him a small smile. It wasn't much, but that man needed something; anything to smile about. Alphonse looked over his shoulder and smiled back. It was enough.

       Henry knocked on the door and Victor answered within a matter of seconds.

       “You know, you really don’t have to knock to come into my room anymore. It’s been what? 18 years of this?”

       Henry shrugged, “Eh, force of habit I guess.” There was an awkward silence that permeated through the air. Before he could stop himself, Henry flung himself at Victor and enveloped him in a hug.

       Victor stumbled backwards a couple steps before he caught himself on the bedpost and hugged him back. “What’s...up?” he asked.

       “I just love you so much,” Henry spoke without thinking. “I love you and I don’t want you to go. I just want to hold you forever and keep you safe.”

       Henry could feel Victor’s breath on his collarbone and he breathed in the clean scent of his warm, wet hair. “I love you too,” Victor sat on the bed and Henry held him against his chest. He could feel his heartbeat through his shirt. His skin was still damp from his shower and it made his clothes stick unpleasantly to his skin, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t even noticed he missed Victor so much.

       Reluctantly, he pulled away but held his hand, running his thumb over his knuckles. “We need to talk,” he said.

       “Yeah, we really do,” Victor said. Henry rested his head on his shoulder.

       “First, Jascha?”

       “Yeah. Jascha,” Victor stared uncomfortably into the middle distance. “Dad knows him?”

       “Yeah. I think he recognizes him for music. Jascha was kinda a high profile violinist at Juilliard. I thought I had seen some of his CDs in the library, but I wasn’t sure,” Henry said as he kissed Victor’s shoulder. “He didn’t, like, immediately identify Jascha, so we have time to think of something.”

       “What do we even do?” Victor mused. “We can’t just say, ‘yes, Jascha Simonis is back from the dead, let’s celebrate.’”

       Henry cocked his head and thought for a second. “I guess it’s kinda up to Jascha, right? We can just ask him what he thinks.”

       “Just ask him?” Victor sounded incredulous. “I don’t think he wants anything to do with me. I was...terrible,”

       “That’s why I can ask him for you. I don’t know. He seemed pretty freaked out about it too. He probably already has a contingency plan.” Henry shrugged. “At any rate, Ernest will be home soon and we can talk about it.”

       “Hold up,” Victor pulled away. “Why is Ernest coming home? Did you invite him?” Panic rose in his voice and Henry rubbed his shoulders to calm him down.

       “He’s coming back for William’s birthday. You know, like he always does. It’s not that big of a deal. But I guess you don’t have to worry about that,” Henry nuzzled into the crook of Victor’s neck. It was cold in the room and he was desperate for Victor’s touch and warmth.

       “Not have to worry about it? It’s a travesty. It is every year. He hates me and he’s right,” Victor huffed.

       “He doesn’t--” Henry almost stopped himself. “He doesn’t hate you. Not really. I bet if you tried, you could reconcile with him, but it would take a lot of work.”

       “He does hate me, Henry. Face it. I’m surprised he even likes you.”

       “What does that even mean? We’re friends. Good friends. I enjoy hanging out with him.” Henry gave Victor a look.

       “Do you now?” the air around Victor grew stormy and miserable.

       “Is there something wrong with me having friends?” He asked. He thought of a comparison he could make to lessen the tension, but he didn’t really think Agatha was a friend and he had known Justine since they were little.

       “It’s not the friends part that bothers me.” Victor crumpled miserably against Henry’s chest.

       “It’s the Ernest part?” he asked.

       “You spend so much time with him and he makes you so happy and I know it would be better if--”

       “No,” Henry grabbed his shoulders. “No. It wouldn’t be better. I love you, Victor. No one else. Certainly not Ernest.” He laughed at the thought of it. “He’s a great guy, and a wonderful friend, but could you imagine both of our emotions together in one place? It would be a fucking train wreck.”

       Victor cracked a smile, maybe it was working. “You two really are kinda touchy-feely.”

       “Yeah, it’s disgusting really. I don’t know how you put up with me,” Henry leaned into Victor and Victor pushed back.

       “I don’t know. I manage to find it within myself to cope.” Victor smiled and Henry smiled and for one second they could forget why they really needed to talk. An uneasy quiet settled back over the room.

       “I don’t want you to leave,” Henry whispered. “I really, really don’t know what I’m going to do this time.” He held Victor’s hand again.

       “Leave?” Victor asked.

       “Yeah. I remember last time, Victor. I’m not that naive. I know what Konig means,” he wrapped his other hand around his waist.

       “I’m not leaving,” Victor said. It was almost the first ray of sunshine Henry had heard in a week.

       “What?” Henry was lost. “But I thought the rules--”

       “I...talked to Dad about...other options. I’m gonna have to do a lot of outpatient stuff, but I’ll be here.”

       “So we won?” Henry asked.

       “We won,” Victor smiled as Henry threw himself at him again. Henry kissed him and held his face between his hands.

       “I’m...that’s amazing. I thought for sure…” He kissed Victor’s forehead. “I’m really happy for you.”

       They revelled together in the warmth of each other’s arms. The cool air from the window blew across Henry’s skin and made him shiver, but Victor kept him close in his arms.

       “I can’t believe you went on the roof without me. That’s practically treason,” Henry said,

       “You...knew?” Victor asked.

       “You can hear it though the whole house, my man. You aren’t exactly the most subtle of creatures.” Henry kissed the corner of Victor’s mouth as he smiled. “We should do it again sometime. It’s nice up there when the moon is full,”

       “Are you sure? It’s pretty dangerous,” It wasn’t a serious question. Victor knew.

       “Danger is my middle name,” Henry bragged. “There is basically nothing in the world I won’t do once,” Victor snorted. “Except like, heroin or crack cocaine. Or, I don’t know, cannibalism or something.” Victor started giggling and it was music to Henry’s ears. “Amendment, there’s basically nothing reasonably non-lethal or morally abhorrent that I won’t do once.”

       “Henry Lucien Clerval,” Victor laughed.

       “Victor Endymion Frankenstein,” Henry countered. Victor lay on his back and closed his eyes and his dark eyelashes fell across his cheeks. “It’s a fitting name,” Henry brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “It’s no wonder the Moon found the sleeping Endymion beautiful.” He gently kissed Victor’s lips and settled his head into his chest. Beneath his ear, he could hear Victor’s heartbeat, steady and strong.

 

* * *

 

       Dawn had not yet brushed the window sill when Victor was roused from sleep by his father’s gentle hand. He slipped out of bed quietly as he was able (by some miracle, not waking Henry) and donned his cleanest button down and a pair of jeans. He surveyed himself in the mirror. Clean hair. Unrumpled clothing. The pallor had not quite left his cheeks and the bags under his eyes were still pressing, but over all, he looked presentable. Far better than he had the last time they went through this and that’s what really counted.

       The car ride over was completed in steely silence. Victor watched the world whip by, blurry in the predawn, and tried to absorb himself in whatever NPR special his father had on to little avail.

       The office was just as he remembered. Calming blue walls and a bored receptionist. A large fish tank full of fat goldfish. Okay, so that had changed. The tank used to have crabs.

       “Victor!” The receptionist at the desk perked up as they walked through the door. “Well as I live and breathe. I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon!”

       “But you were expecting me eventually?” Victor smiled awkwardly.

       Marge shrugged with a light smile.

       “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he muttered. As his father began the process of signing in, Victor collapsed into a chair. He looked mournfully out the window.

       “He’s grown again,” he heard Marge say as she handed his father some paperwork. “And his hair is so long!”

       “Yes, he seems intent on growing it out.”

       “Looking mournful there, Viktor.”

       “Dr. Konig.” Victor didn’t bother looking away from parking lot outside. “Long time, no see.”

       “Not nearly as long as I would have hoped.” Konig laughed.

       “Yeah, well,” Victor stood and offered a pained smile, “five years isn’t so bad.”

       Konig’s expression did not shift from one of relaxed ambivalence. “Three since our last meeting, actually. But who’s counting, yes? What matters is that you are here now and we are to talk. Come to my office, come.”

       Konig breezed past the reception desk, scooping up the thick file offered to by Marge, and moved to stand in front of his father. He took his hand and shook it too hard. “Alphonse, a pleasure as always. I’ll take good care of him.”

       “You always do.” His father smiled thinly and, as Konig released his hand, grimaced and shook out the pins and needles behind the therapist’s turned back. Victor followed Konig slowly. As he passed his father, the elder shot out a hand and grabbed his sleeve.

       Victor froze.

       “Pick you up at eleven, okay?”

       “Yeah. Yeah, sounds good.”

       With a nod to Marge, his father exited the office. Victor watched him go, trying desperately to keep the pit in his stomach down.

       “Viktor!” Konig called. “Come! Much to do!”

       Alright. Here we go. Don’t mess this up, Victor.

       “So.” Per the usual, Konig’s office was over stuffy and over cluttered, stinking of febreeze and expired German sausage. Victor took a seat on the aged leather couch cautiously. Or, rather, Victor sank into the aged leather couch. Across from him, Konig took the high backed chair.

       “So.” Victor valiantly resisted the urge to vacate the office, find the nearest washroom, and lose his breakfast.

       “So.” Konig repeated. “How are you doing, Viktor? Obviously not well, I assume.”

       “Uh, yeah. Not- Not peachy. But, not too terrible, I would say.” Victor eyed Konig nervously as he cracked open the thick file in his lap. “More of an evenish kind of bad, like a middling-”

       “It says here that you were arrested.”

       “...Okay. Yeah. So pretty bad.”

       “Obviously.” Konig said. His voice, though serious, was not unkind. If anything, he sounded amused. “A bone saw? Really?”

       “Well, I- not a big one-”

       “A bone saw  and  a scalpel. You were trying to make a big point, yes?”

       “I- yeah. Yeah, I was.”

       Konig shook his head and set the file aside. “Your dramatic flair has not faded with age, I see.” Even with the lightened tone, Victor could see the intensity behind the doctor’s eyes as they bored into him. It was as unnerving now as it had been when he started seeing the man at seven. Victor struggled to remind himself that he was legally an adult now. This was not supposed to be terrifying.

       “Not at all.”

       “Good thing too. I consider it one of your best qualities.”

       “You’d be alone in that assessment.”

       Konig waved a hand. “Bah! You and I both know that your father still values your passions. He is merely worried at their direction as am I.”

       Victor leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t mention my father.”

       “But you were thinking of him.”

       “Listen,” Victor ran a hand through his hair and sighed, “can we not do the whole ‘I’m a mindreader’ bit right now? It’s honestly kind of disturbing.”

       “But I am a mindreader.” Konig emphasized with the utmost seriousness.

       “You’re a therapist.”

       “And you are a talented, smart young man with a nasty habit of going, shall we say, off the rails when he feels his place in other’s lives is threatened, forcing them to refocus on him by engaging in obsessive and self-destructive behaviors. Once caught in a cycle of these behaviors, the original purpose of them, however, is quickly lost as you become consumed by the activity itself and the notion that your separation and destruction serves as some kind of divine punishment for your disappointing existence. Ironic, really, as you have never believed in god or any higher power beyond yourself.” Konig raised a haughty eyebrow. “Have I missed anything, Viktor?”

       Victor’s mouth drew into a thin line. He nodded loosely and avoided making direct eye contact. “I...yeah. No. That pretty much...pretty much covers it.”

       Konig smiled to himself. “Mindreader indeed.”

       Victor didn’t bother to respond, just sat with his hands stuffed between his knees and his shoulders hunched. In the past, he would wait, sit in silence as Konig did and listen to the clock count down the hour he had here, but...last chance and all. He couldn’t mess this one up. Not today. Not when Henry was waiting for him to come home.

       Victor drew his shoulders back against the weight of the doctor’s words. “I, um. What do we need to accomplish in order to make this a productive session?”

       “Well, I’m not quite sure, Viktor. It is, ultimately, up to you what we accomplish.” Konig grinned at the word choice, at Victor repeating back the phrases he had preached to him for years.

       Do not puke, Victor commanded himself. “We were going to talk about outpatient. And, uh, do an assessment. Of my mental state.”

       “Ah, quite right.” Konig resettled the file on his lap and cracked it open. “Shall we begin?”

       Eleven AM saw Victor back in the waiting room having valiantly not thrown up and now thoroughly and completely convinced that Konig was some kind of mindreading wizard or phantom or some shit. Science be damned in this case. He curled his legs to his chest and breathed a deep, shaky sigh.

       “Doing okay there, hun?” Marge asked sympathetically.

       “Yeah.” Victor said. “Yeah. We’ve, uh. We’ve got a plan.”

       “That’s good.” Marge smiled kindly. “Seems like more than you’ve had in a while.”

       “Yeah. I guess so.”

       Victor shot a nervous glance to the doorway.

       “Don’t worry, your father should be here soon.”

       “Yeah.”

       “And in the meantime,” Victor looked over curiously as Marge set her paperwork aside and leaned forward across the reception desk, “I want to hear everything and anything about your school.”

       “School?” Victor asked. He could barely even remember what he’d been doing with that. It seemed like years since he’d last attended classes much less learned anything relevant.

       “Yes, school! I haven’t spoken to you since your junior year, I want to hear all about graduation and your plans and so on. Are you still friends with that boy Henry? Oh he was so lovely to talk to, such a sweet boy. And Ernest, how is he?”

       “He’s...uh…” It was dangerous territory to talk about any of this, but Marge seemed earnest herself. She was trying to distract Victor too, which wasn’t an easy task. So he decided to try in return. “Ernest is good. Still in school, playing soccer for the University's league. He’s, uh, one of the best! Or...so I’ve heard.”

        Twenty minutes later, his father arrived to pick him up and, after a brief chat with Konig, the two were on their way home. Still in silence all the way. Victor didn’t bother trying to focus on NPR this time.

 

* * *

 

       Jascha had needed to drive again that morning. Ernest had class; Russian, of all things; and he apparently had maxed out his number of acceptable absences for the semester, so he decided to attend despite his near-crippling hangover. Finals were starting later that week, so it made sense that he’d be worried about school. Ernest instructed him back to campus, and they parked at the library. Jascha walked Ernest to his class, for fear that he’d get sick or fall over along the way.

       “Will you actually survive this class?” Jascha asked Ernest seriously.

       “I am...fine.” Ernest said miserably. “Why did Russians invent vodka?”

       “Russia is a bad place to live,” Jascha patted him lightly on the arm. “Just ask my dad.”

       “You have a dad?” Ernest asked, half present.

       “Yeah,” Jascha said, unconvincingly. “I think.”

       “What?” Ernest looked up at him, squinting against the sun.

       “Go to class,” Jascha smiled gently. “I’ll meet you back at the library. Call me, if you need anything.”

       Ernest looked at him and sighed. “I can’t remember the last time I, like, did my Russian homework...I’m gonna be in so much trouble.”

       Jascha glanced to each side and, finding no one looking, took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I can help you study. I’ll take the exam for you, if you want.”

       “Dude, that would be cheating,” Ernest said weakly, his cheeks tinged pink. “I’m, uh, gonna be late.”

       Jascha let go of Ernest’s hand. “Like I said, call me.” He called out as Ernest approached the language building. “Don’t throw up on your professor!”

  
       “I’ll try not to!” Ernest waved back at him weakly.

       Once Ernest was in the building and presumably around people who wouldn’t kidnap him were he to pass out, Jascha left. He had no intention of going to the library that particular hour. No, he’d seen a better thing: Signs for a music shop while they were driving. He didn’t mind walking for half an hour, and he retraced their drive until he found the small store. He had, plus the walk back, about fifteen minutes to spare.

       A little bell rang as he entered, and the middle-aged woman behind the cashier’s desk beamed at him as he walked in. He smiled back awkwardly, eyes wide as he saw the violins and violas hanging on one wall, cellos and a couple basses on another. Shelf after shelf was filled with sheet music and instructional books. He felt a wave of comfort and surety wash over him, and he let himself get lost in it. He almost didn’t notice when the woman was joined by a man.

       “-Simonis?” He heard his voice whispered and he turned. The woman was speaking to an older man, whispering about something and looking at him. They straightened up as they saw him notice.

       “I’m sorry, sir,” the woman said politely. “But you just seemed strikingly familiar. What can we help you with today?”

       Jascha shrugged off the fear of being recognized. He was dead. Any logical person would pass it off as an uncanny resemblance. “Would it be alright if I tested out some violins?” He asked quickly. “My, uh, friend is looking for one.”

       “Of course,” She nodded and the man reached down three violins from a shelf. “These are a sampling of our standard quality violins, though we do have fancier ones for sale.”

       Jascha ran his hands tenderly down the fingerboard of one of them, and felt the urge to cry when the strings vibrated under even the lightest of touches. He tightened the bow and attached the shoulder rest they gave him- not his usual brand, but it would do. He lifted the violin onto his shoulder and tucked it under his chin.

       What to play. Dear god, he had no idea if this would work. He needed to pick something he knew, and something he loved. If the worst happened; if his fingers really and truly couldn’t remember; he wanted to know it for sure. That it wasn’t a botched memory of a piece. The only thing he’d come close to having practiced in months was the Vitali. Months? Months, plural? Prior to whatever had happened in the nightmare he knew the longest he’d gone without practicing was days. As in less than a week. Two days, tops. He forced the thought out of his mind. He’d play the Vitali. He would try, at least.

       He struck the first chord, and it was correct. He played the first measures, and they were adequate. He played through what he knew to be the first page, and it was decent. Beautiful, even. He played the next page on the second violin, and the third on the third. When they handed him their higher quality instruments, he did the same. He noted the improvement in the sound afforded to him in the fancier violins, but he knew it was the craftsmanship of the luthier and not his own. He put down the last violin and loosened the bow, lovingly replacing both to their case nearly without breathing. When he looked up, the two storekeepers as well as another couple clients gave him a quiet round of applause.

       “That was lovely!” The woman said approvingly. “Are you in the orchestra?”

       He smiled awkwardly. “No, not here,” He looked at the clock. He was late by five minutes. “These are your work?”

       “Yes, me and my husband make them,” She said humbly.

       “They’re beautiful instruments,” He said with a sigh. “You’ve done a nice job.”

       “Thank you,” She said humbly.

       “I’m afraid I need to head out, but thank you for letting me play them.” Jascha smiled.

       “Anytime,” She said gently.

       Jascha left the store and walked as quickly as he could. Now that he was out of the shop, his eyes were tearing up. He wiped angrily at them with his sleeve, refusing to let his hands touch his face. They weren’t his. He had done better than he’d expected, sure, but it wasn’t his sound. They made someone else’s sound, and that someone else didn’t have the same nuance or love or anything as him. He couldn’t believe that he’d used these hands for anything, violin or otherwise. How could he eat, or bathe, or write when the motions weren’t being done correctly? How could he touch Ernest, knowing that his feelings wouldn’t come through correctly? Even worse, what if Ernest would come to love these hands and would never actually know Jascha’s touch? Jascha bit his lip, thinking about how he’d squeezed Ernest’s hand earlier. Sure, he’d felt it. They both had. But his hands, his  real  hands, might never know that feeling.

       He made it back to the library. Ernest was sitting on the steps, and he stood when he saw Jascha coming towards him from the direction of town. He looked better now; he seemed stable on his feet and he looked less bothered by the sun. As Jascha got closer he had to fight the urge to run to him and tell him everything that happened, and to confess that his touch was all wrong and that he was sorry he’d never actually be able to hold his hand. But he couldn’t do that. So he walked over calmly, and stuffed his crisis somewhere deep enough that it felt gone.

       “Where were you?” Ernest asked anxiously. “I was kinda freaking out when I couldn’t find you and you didn’t pick up.”

       “Pick up?” Jascha was confused.

       “Your phone.” Ernest sighed. “I called you.”

       Jascha dug his phone out of his pocket. It was on vibrate, since the ringer made him jumpy. Sure enough, there was a missed call. “I’m sorry.”

       “It’s okay,” Ernest said, soothed. “Where did you go?”

       Jascha told himself to lie. But he couldn’t. “Music store.”

       “Like, records?” Ernest cocked his head. Jascha shook his head.

       “Violin store.” He sighed. “I- I don’t want to talk about it right now.” Ernest’s brow furrowed in concern, so Jascha forced himself to smile. “I’m okay.”

       “Yeah…” Ernest nodded suspiciously. “Sure.” He recovered quickly. “Should we go back to the frat? I could, like, really use a nap.”

       “Are you good to drive?” Jascha tried to keep the desperation out of his voice.

       “Mhm, yeah, I think so,” Ernest nodded, heading towards the car. “I threw up during Russian and it helped.”

       “In the class?” Jascha raised a concerned eyebrow.

       “Ha! No, I wish.” Ernest laughed as they got in the car. “I got up and went to the bathroom to do it. Close call, though. Almost didn’t make it in time.”

       As they drove back, Jascha managed to drown out the pain in his legs with a concoction of depression about his performance and an overwhelming dread about returning to the frat. He almost didn’t notice when Ernest parked the car. He climbed out and grabbed his bag of clothes from the back, standing close to Ernest as he got his stuff out too.

        “What should we tell them?” Jascha asked gravely.

        “Like, about the hotel and stuff?” Ernest asked. “I- I don’t know.”

        Jascha thought for a second. “You stayed with your sister for the weekend.” He said quickly. “I, uh, stayed with my parents. Who live nearby.”

        Ernest nodded, eyes wide. “Yeah, okay. That could work. None of them know I don’t talk to my sister.”

        “And they don’t know that my parents moved to NYC to be near me when I went to school.” Jascha tried to sound convinced by his own alibi.

        “Maybe they won’t ask?” Ernest asked weakly.

        “Maybe.” Jascha tried to sound reassuring.

        They walked up the stairs to the front door and opened it. It was nearly always unlocked, except at night. They entered as discreetly as possible, hearing the TV blaring in the other room. It felt unchanged; the dishes were still unwashed, shoes and sports equipment lay everywhere. Ernest and Jascha didn’t even take off their shoes; they made a beeline upstairs to their respective rooms. When Jascha opened his, he found it unchanged. He left his stuff next to his bed and breathed a sigh of relief, sitting down on his bed and running his hands through his overgrown hair. It was then he heard a knock on the bathroom door.

        “Jascha?” He heard Ernest say through the door. “Can I come in?”

        “Yeah,” He said. He heard Ernest mess with the door.

        “It’s, uh, locked,” Ernest said anxiously. “Let me in?”

        Jascha got up and crossed the room. The door shouldn’t have been locked; even before they were comfortable sharing each other’s rooms he never bothered to lock his side. He tried the door, and it was most certainly stuck. “It’s...Yeah, it’s locked.”

        “It’s not locked from the inside, so it must be on your end. You have a key, right?”

        “Uh, yeah, I think.” Jascha dug his keys out of his pocket, and tried to get them into the lock. There was something blocking it, and it adhered slightly to the tip of the keys. “I think it’s blocked,” Jascha said quickly. He could feel panic rising up in him.

        “Jascha,” Ernest’s voice dropped to a frightened whisper. “I, uh. I think they, like, went through my room.”

        “What?” Jascha pressed his hands against the wooden door. “Why? Why would they do that? What makes you think they did?”

        “It’s just off,” Ernest’s voice was thin and nervous through the door. “I think they went through my clothes. And maybe my computer?” Jascha heard him take a shaky breath. When he spoke, it was nearly completely muffled by the door. “I’m scared, Jascha.”

        “I- Okay. We need to act like everything is normal.” Jascha tried to sound sure of himself. “I’m going to go see if any of my stuff has been moved, okay? I’ll come right back.”

        He dug through his drawers. Everything seemed there. All the clothes Henry had lent him were either there or in his bag. The stuff Lin gave him was there too. He remembered with a stroke of horror that he’d left the laundry. Ernest had loaned him workout clothes. God, that really had been only like four days ago. It felt like a year. He looked in his hamper and saw that the shirt and sweatpants were missing. He swallowed hard and returned to the bathroom door.

        “Okay.” Jascha said, gathering himself. “The workout clothes you gave me are missing.”

       “What?” Ernest said softly. “They went through your laundry?”

       “I mean, apparently.” Jascha leaned his face against the door. “What do we do?”

       “Act like everything is normal?” Ernest’s voice was weak. “This is so…”

       “Messed up?” Jascha said quickly.

       “What did we do before?” Ernest asked quietly. “Like, before things got...you know.”

       “Before I was here and we started spending all our time together?” Jascha said bitterly.

       “...Yeah. Like a month ago.”  Ernest’s voice was shallow.

       “Well, I spent a lot of time alone. And you did, I don’t know. Whatever it is you sports people do. You were fighting a lot with that girl. Ashley.” Jascha tried not to sound bitter.

       “Right. Okay. We’ll do that then,” Ernest sounded more resolved. “I’ll go down and just hang out or whatever. Watch whatever they’re watching downstairs. You have your books?”

       “Yeah,” Jascha ached at the idea of Ernest being alone around whoever went through their rooms. Mason, probably. “Will you be okay?”

       “I think so,” Ernest said gently. “Just...Don’t wear headphones, okay?”

       “Yeah,” Jascha nodded. “I won’t.”

       The afternoon peeled by slowly. Half an hour without Ernest, and he couldn’t hear anything weird. An hour. He opened his door so it was slightly ajar, and sat at his desk so he’d be closer. The sports seasons were over. That meant that the guys would be back sooner rather than later. Two hours. He had hit the second hundred pages of  War and Peace . It was just about three. That meant classes, save for lab, would be done. Ernest would have gone to his psych lecture at two, and he would be back any minute. He jumped as he heard the front door open and close. Maybe that was him. When it closed again, five minutes later, accompanied by heavy footsteps, he knew Mason and/or Brendon must also be home.

       He desperately wanted to sit at the top of the stairs and hear everything. The low mumble of voices that did reach him was unintelligible, and he couldn’t even make out who was down there. Three-thirty. It had been quiet for ten, fifteen minutes. He picked up the book again. He made it to the bottom of page 201 when he heard something crash down below. He got up and took the stairs as quickly and as quietly as he possibly could, pausing before he made his presence known.

       “-heard about soccer’s wins this weekend,” Mason said. “From Brendon. You know, since you weren’t here.” There was something venomous in his voice. “Where were you, anyway?”

       “I was with my sister,” Jascha heard Ernest say. To his credit, he sounded calm.

       “Brendon, who did you say picked Ernest up from the party?” Mason called.

       “It was the new guy,” Brendon said from a distance; the living room, probably.

       “Jascha?” Mason asked. “Yeah. Funny that he wasn’t here either.”

       “I...don’t know what you’re implying,” Ernest said coolly.

       “I’m not implying anything,” Jascha heard slow footsteps, and someone back into a counter. “What I’m  saying , is this...” Mason’s voice dropped too quiet for him to hear. Jascha felt his heart rate spike as he tried to hear.

       “...Back off,” He heard Ernest say quietly. “Hey! Let go- Get your hands off me!” He heard Ernest yell. That was it. He came down the stairs in time to see Ernest pressed up against the kitchen counter, held there by Mason, who had one hand holding Ernest’s wrists against the counter and the other one under his shorts and between his legs. Ernest’s legs were pinned between Mason’s body and the counter.

“You want this, huh? You wanna get fucked by a  real  man, you little fucking fag-” Mason had his face close to Ernest’s. Jascha crossed the room in a second.  

       “Get off him!” Jascha yelled. As Mason turned to see him, Ernest pulled himself free, and went to stand next to Jascha. He had to fight the instinct to look at him; to make sure he was okay. He kept his eyes locked on Mason, who glanced from his face down to his neck. His eyes narrowed, and he yelled to Brendon, who had left the TV to come stand near the kitchen, presumably to watch whatever was happening. Another guy, Nathan, had come down the stairs when he heard the shouting.  

       “See? I fuckin’ told you!” Mason turned back to Jascha and Ernest with a look of mixed disgust. “To think, in my own house. How long have you been sucking dick, Ernest?” Mason yelled viciously. Jascha took a step so he was in front of him. “Before or after Ashley?”

“I haven’t- I’m not-” Ernest stammered. “I’m not...I’ve never fucked him. I-I’ve never even-”

       Mason took a step closer to them and Jascha braced himself, holding an arm out in front of Ernest protectively. Mason stopped and looked Ernest up and down, glancing occasionally to Jascha. “Who is this guy, anyways?” He turned to Brendon, who shrugged. Mason refocused on Jascha and Ernest. “So what you’re expecting me to believe is that you two conveniently both leave the house, at the same time, in the same car, and disappear for a whole fucking weekend. And I’m not supposed to assume that  that  mark,” he pointed at the hickey on Jascha’s neck, only barely visible under his shirt, “with the testimonials of Ashley, the fact that I found Ernest’s clothes in  your  room,  don’t  add up to you two homos sucking each other off?” Mason scoffed. “Fat motherfucking chance, Ernest!”

       “Hey, Mason-” The other guy started; Nathan, Jascha thought.

       “Shut up, Nate!” Mason threatened. “Unless you’re with them too?” Nathan shook his head and backed down. Mason took another step forward, and Jascha refused to take a step back. Up close, their height differential worked in his favor. Mason was built like a brick, but he wasn’t especially tall. Nonetheless, Mason stayed in his space. “I’m willing to overlook this weekend,” Mason said slowly, “With the understanding that this is over- No more secret doors or romantic little cocksucking retreats- It ends now.”

       Jascha wished he could see Ernest, to get any sense of whether or not fighting this now would be a good idea. But he couldn’t, so he didn’t move or say anything. He felt Ernest push his arm aside as he came and stood next to him.

       “We didn’t do anything wrong,” Ernest said firmly. “And we don’t have to stay here.”

       “Ernest-” Jascha started.

       “Okay,” Mason said between his teeth. “Get out.”

       Ernest moved towards the stairs quietly, heading back up to his room. Jascha stood between Mason and the stairs defensively. Mason paced in front of him like an angry dog.

       “I should kill you,” He hissed. “I should beat you to death and make him watch.”

       “I’d like to see you try,” Jascha said coldly. He could hear Ernest walking between their two rooms, presumably packing. Mason seethed at him.

       “There’s more of us than there are of you,” Mason said through his teeth. “It’d be a public service. Prevent you from fucking up anyone else. Spreading your...sickness.”

       “Shut up,” Jascha said through gritted teeth. “Can you, like, I don’t know. Hate us quietly? If this were contagious you’d have gotten it by grabbing Ernest’s-” He couldn’t finish the sentence. It was too terrible.

       “Watch your mouth!” Mason yelled, closing the distance. “So you admit it? You and Ernest are slimy fucking fag-”

Something in Jascha snapped and he grabbed the sides of Mason’s head, slamming it against his knee. He heard something crunch, and Mason pushed him down against the stairs, screaming. Mason recoiled back, blood pouring from his broken face. Brendon and Nathan appeared by this side. Mason groaned and swayed on his feet, leaning against Brendon for support as he tried and failed to reset his nose. Nathan glanced at him in fear, and Brendon looked at him with hatred. He heard footsteps on the stairs.

              “Jascha, are you-”

       “I’m okay,” Jascha looked up at him. Ernest had changed clothes and his eyes were wet. Two huge suitcases, his backpack, and a smaller suitcase were packed. Jascha saw that his few belongings were in a sports bag. “Are you ready to go?”

       “Uh, yeah.” Ernest looked back towards the rooms. “I, uh. Don’t have time to like, grab the desktop. Or my sheets.” He looked back at Jascha with a pained face. “Let’s just go.”

       Jascha nodded and climbed the stairs, limping slightly from breaking Mason’s nose over his knee. He grabbed one of the big suitcases and the bag of his stuff and brought them out onto the porch. He ushered Ernest out the door. “Ernest, carry what you can to the car. I- I have something I need to do before we go.”

       “What?” Ernest looked at him miserably. “Please, Jascha, just-”

       “Listen, it’s okay,” Jascha kissed him on the forehead, aware that he could be seen. “Just let me do this.” Ernest shifted where he stood and glanced between Jascha and Nathan, who was watching them while Brendon cleaned Mason’s face.

       “Okay,” Ernest said hesitantly. “But...don’t take long.”

       Jascha kissed him on the lips, and relaxed slightly as he felt Ernest’s hand find his. He watched as Ernest carried the first of the bags to the car before going back into the house and closed the door behind him. He turned to Nathan.

       “Nathan, right?” Jascha asked quietly. “You’re a first year?” Nathan nodded. He looked absolutely terrified. “Go upstairs,” Jascha commanded. Nathan nodded again and left. Jascha went over to the kitchen sink, where Brendon and Mason were preoccupied. He grabbed Brendon by the collar of his shirt, dragging him off of Mason. “You’re going to leave me alone with Mason for five minutes.”

       “What? No way-” Jascha used his other hand to grab his throat.

       “You’re going to,” He said through his teeth. “Because if you don’t, I’ll hurt you. And Lin was kind to me, and apparently she cares about scum like you, so I’d rather not.”

       Brendon felt Jascha’s grip tighten around his throat and he nodded stiffly. He let him go, and watched him head upstairs to join Nathan. He rounded on Mason, who was nursing his nose and probably also a bad concussion.

       “Mason,” Jascha said bitterly. “Look at me.”

       “Fuckin’ psycho fa-” Mason muttered, interrupted by Jascha grabbing his face and turning him around to face him. He cried out in pain.

       “Don’t. Don’t say that word,” Jascha kneed him in the stomach with his other knee, knocking the wind out of him and sending him to the ground. “I’ve had a really, really bad day. And I’m tired of people using fear on my friends.” Mason didn’t respond; he just groaned. Jascha kicked him hard in the ribs, causing him to vomit and let out a guttural moan. Jascha thought he felt something crack, and he felt high. “That’s for whatever happened to Henry...” he hissed. He felt a wave of complete rage wash over him, casting the whole world in red. He kicked him even harder between the legs, causing him to cry out in agony. “...And that’s for Ernest.” Jascha knelt by him, pulling him up by the collar so that they were making eye contact. “Remember this next time you assault someone,” he whispered, as he dropped him to the ground.

       He washed his hands at the sink, and grabbed the soccer bag Ernest had left behind in his rush to get out. He saw Nathan standing at the top of the stairs, and he looked at him very carefully. He looked afraid, but not angry. “Are you going to tell anyone?” He asked. Nathan shook his head slowly, and Jascha ran out to Ernest’s car, throwing the soccer stuff in the back.

       “You’re okay,” Ernest said, half-dazed and half-surprised. “I-I’m-”   
        “It’s okay,” Jascha said sweetly. “I’m okay. Do you want me to drive?”

 

 


	26. Highs and Lows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry makes a bet. Victor acts sane. Jascha meets Lizzie and Justine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Sorry for the whacky update times this weekend; I mistook Friday for Saturday. As always, please reach out! We love hearing from you. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this section include: Vomiting and description of panic attacks.

        Henry didn’t really expect to wake up before Victor came home from his appointment, but here he was. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and if he didn’t get up to do something he would wallow in a self-destructive stupor all day. He stretched and tried not to cry a little when his spine popped and fucked with his rib. There really wasn’t much to do around the Frankenstein house without Victor.

        He rifled through Victors drawers. Most of his clothes would be too small, but there were a couple of sweaters that would do nicely. Maybe at one point, he would have felt guilty about stealing Victor’s clothes, but really, it was fine. Plus, he didn’t have any of his here because he hadn’t been back to the apartment in forever. Well, like a week. Maybe more. It felt like ages. He eventually settled on a pair of jeans and what might classify as an ugly Christmas sweater. It was abysmal with little knitted deer and snowmen, but it smelled like Victor’s laundry detergent. Henry couldn’t quite pick out what it actually was. Pine? Rolling fields? Something burning?

        Henry ran downstairs. “William?” no response, “William are you alright?”

        “I’m fine,” he squeaked. “Uncle Henry, I think I’m bad at cooking.”

        Henry walked into the kitchen and pulled the sweater over his nose and mouth. It smelled like burning oil and savor. Zeus would be grateful for this impromptu offering. “What were you even trying to make?” he asked. He opened all the windows he could find on the first floor of the house and the smoke began to clear.

        “Eggs,” William sighed. “I was trying to make eggs. Usually Dad makes us breakfast, but he’s out with Victor.”

        “Hmm...have you mastered the art of toast yet?”

        “Toast?” William asked.

        “Toast,” Henry confirmed. “It is the single most useful theriac to ever be founded upon this earth.” he took the frying pan of the stove and turned off the heat.

        “Uncle Henry, I don’t think toast is going to cure snake venom. Toast and honey does sound good though.”

        “Nonsense,” Henry laughed as he rifled through the Frankenstein’s spice cabinet. “Toast can do anything. If you asked your brothers, toast can bring back the dead.” He winked at William and handed him a plate.  “When we were little, your brothers used to just drown me in toast if I got sick. It was really funny. They were so sweet and attentive, just, you know, only with toast.”

        “Why? Why would they do that?” William asked.

        “I don’t know, I just think they really liked toast.” Henry shrugged. “I can’t cook much to save my life, but I’ve got toast down to an exact science.”

        Henry looked at his plate. He really did. It was a nice golden brown with just the right amount of butter and cinnamon sugar. It was Victor’s favorite, but he didn’t think it was half bad either. It tasted, oddly enough, like home. Even though Alphonse usually cooked and it was usually amazing, it was this that really brought him back to happier times.

        He grabbed a bottle of honey and handed it to William. “You know what’s also good? Apple with honey,” Henry said. He tossed an apple to William and he caught it, something Victor was never able to do.

        “You have a sweet tooth, don’t you?” William smiled and sat at the kitchen table.

        “Yeah, sorta,” Henry sat next to him. “Do you have any plans for the rest of the day, bud?”

        “Not much, I’m just going to chill out,” he gave a noncommittal shrug. “There isn’t really much to do other than read or go outside or you know, stuff like that.”

        “Have you ever heard of video games?” Henry asked. Victor had never really been one for them, but Ernest was. There was probably an old console lying around here somewhere. Maybe he’d text Ernest and ask if he could go through he room to find it. Oh wait, he didn’t have a phone. Fuck. He’d have to ask Victor or Alphonse or someone about that.

        “I know what video games are,” William scrunched his nose. “Dad says they’re bad for me and that I should play actual games instead.”

        Henry wandered over to the living room and looked through the dark wood drawers. Sure enough, an old playstation was tucked behind a couple empty bottles. “Do you want to play video games or normal games?” Henry flashed a smile and raised an eyebrow. “I am such a bad role model.”

        “I’ll take video games since Dad’s not around,” William said as he threw himself on the couch.

        “Hmm, okay, let’s see what we have here,” Henry said as he rifled through Ernest’s old video game collection. “No...no...definitely not...” he muttered to himself. “Oh, this is the one,”

        He threw the case to William and again, he caught it. He was practically shaking with excitement. “What’s this?” he asked.

        “Castlevania, Symphony of the Night,” Henry said with a truly terrible Transylvanian accent.

        “And who is that?” William asked, pointing to the very pretty man on the cover.

        Henry sighed. He looked at the man with gorgeous, flowing blonde hair and a comically large sword gracefully fluttering in front of Dracula’s castle. It was the very picture of decadence and Henry was entirely enraptured.  “That, my man, is Alucard.” Henry started taking the plastic off the case. Obviously Ernest had never played. It was way too scary for his fragile mind.

        “That’s a dumb name,” William said.

        “What, no way! It’s majestic,” Henry was personally offended.

        “It’s just Dracula spelled backwards. That’s lame,” William scoffed.

        “How dare you besmirch the name of Alucard,” Henry countered, “He was the first fictional character I fell in love with,”

        “In love?” William asked, grabbing the controller.

        “Deeply and passionately in love.” Henry smiled. He watched William play the game for a little bit and helped him get past some particularly hard monsters. It was so Victor’s aesthetic. How on earth had he never played it with him before? With all their fond memories of vampires and changeling children, it seemed like the perfect match.

        “How did you know you liked Victor?” William asked.

        Well, that came out of left field. “Oh, I...umm,” Henry stuttered. “I think I had always liked him. I...well… I think I knew when we went camping together for a few weeks during the summer once. He was...you know...himself and so brilliantly happy,” Henry blushed, it was difficult to explain to an eleven year old. “Why do you ask?”

        “I um...I don’t know… I kinda might...you know,” William stammered and Henry couldn’t help but to smile.

        “Is there someone in your class?” Henry asked. He didn’t really want to pry, but the subject of anyone else’s crushes was far too fun to pass up.

        “She’s like...really nice and pretty and she’s really into Greek mythology and books and stuff…” William blushed and looked away. “She hangs out with me during our free time and we’ve been writing stories together.”

        “Oh buddy, that’s so sweet! What’s her name?” he was thrilled.

        “Isabella…” Maybe it was Henry’s mind playing tricks on him, but William looked upset.

        “What’s wrong?”

        “She’s a girl!” William was absolutely distraught.

        “Why is that a problem?” He cocked his head.

        “She’s a girl! You have Victor and Elizabeth has Justine and Ernest probably has someone from like...soccer or whatever. What am I going to tell Dad?”

        Henry gathered the small boy in his arms and smiled into his hair. “I’m sure your dad will love you no matter what.”

        “Well...I’m not going to get to see her for like two days. She texted me saying she was sick.”

        “Aww, that’s rough, buddy.”

        “I don’t want to have to go to school without her,”

        “Wait,” Henry said.

        “What?” William asked, squirming away from him.

        “What day is today?” William tried to scooch farther away. “William Orpheus Frankenstein what day is it?”

        “I…” William dissolved into laughter as Henry gently tackled him and tried to tickle the information out of him. “That’s not fair,” William said in between fits of laughter. “You’re bigger than me. Uncle Henry!”

        “You should have thought about that before you skipped school! What on earth is your dad gonna say?” Henry was beaming at William. The kid deserved a break sometimes. Eleven was rough.

        “I bet dad won’t even notice I’m doing anything wrong,” he said.

        “That’s so not true,” Henry felt his voice soaring. “Your dad notices everything.”

        “I never do anything wrong. I bet he wouldn’t question me for a second.” William put up a protective pillow between himself and Henry.

        “Wanna actually make a bet?” Henry felt a roguish grin spread across his face. “I’ll get you the sugariest, most unhealthy snack Alphonse would never let you have if he goes a full hour without noticing,”

        “You’ve got yourself a deal,” William said reaching out his hand. “If you win, I’ll let you borrow all of my poetry books.” Henry shook on it and just in time, too. He heard the click of the front door unlocking.

        Henry smoothed out the wrinkles in his sweater and went to greet Victor and Alphonse at the door. Victor said nothing, only smiled and went up to the room. Henry desperately wanted to follow, but he needed to pull through with William. It was only an hour. Victor would be totally fine.

        “Hello, Henry. Hello, William,” Alphonse said as he walked to the kitchen. “Why does it smell like you two have tried to burn down my house?”

        “Uhh, we had a little mishap trying to make breakfast this morning,” Henry explained.

        “Were you two...playing video games?” He asked. “I didn’t even know William liked them.”

        “Well, I wouldn’t know because you never let me play them,” William said. He stood a little bit behind Henry’s back.

        “I never let you play them on school days,” Alphonse corrected. “You can play them whenever you want on the weekend.”

        “Oh,” William said quietly.

        Henry sat next to William and picked up the controller and started to play the game. It really was fun. He never had a chance to play anything much once he had gotten to highschool. Time passed quickly and Alphonse periodically walked behind them and asked what they were doing. Both of them kept eyeing the clock.

        “Would you like me to make lunch for you two?” he asked from the kitchen. That’s where the calendar is. There were four minutes left until Henry lost the bet.

        “That would be really wonderful,” Henry said, following him into the kitchen. “Maybe something for Victor too?” he asked.

        “No no no, Dad, I think I’m fine.”

        “Okay, suite yourself,” Alphonse said. If Henry was right it would take three. Two. One. “William, isn’t it a Monday?”

        “Yes, Dad,” William said, life draining for his voice.

        Alphonse appeared from the kitchen with his eyebrow raised. “Is it a school holiday?” He made direct eye contact with William.  

        “No Dad,” William said.

        Alphonse tried to keep his face neutral but the disbelief and a hint of amusement flashed across his face.

        “How did you even manage that?” Alphonse continued talking and Henry disappeared upstairs once he was reasonably sure that he wasn’t too mad at William.

        “Hey Victor, How did it go?” Henry didn’t knock on his door this time. Victor was laying down facing the ceiling and Henry crawled into the bed and snuggled next to him.

        “He’s a wizard, Henry. An absolute warlock,” Victor nuzzled into Henry’s hair as he lay his head on Victor’s chest.

        “What did he do this time?” he asked.

        “He’s a mindreader. He’s actually magic. I just don’t understand,” Henry took Victor’s hand.

        “So what’s going to happen?” Henry asked as he pressed a kiss to his cheek.

 

* * *

  

        “Lots and lots of talking.” Victor mumbled, letting himself burrow farther into Henry’s soft hair. He was exhausted. Completely and utterly exhausted and not even in a proper, sleepless way. Rather it was a bone deep, joint stiffening continuous weight, enveloping his frame like a quilt. His innards felt raw and bloody, like someone had scooped out his inside with a spoon and hadn’t quite bothered to close up the stitching. And this was only the preview of what was to come. It was only day one. Joy.

        “I thought that went without saying.” Henry snuggled into him and Victor embraced the warmth, inviting it to refill the cavernous void in his chest.

        Henry was probably looking for specifics.

        “So.” Victor forced himself to sit up a bit, much to Henry’s visible displeasure. “I’m definitely out of school. Not that it much matters at this point since the semester’s basically over, but having an official medical withdrawal should still help with the fact that I bombed every class I took this year.”

        “Every class?” Henry asked. Victor couldn’t tell if he was surprised or not by the tone, but he certainly sounded disappointed. “Did you just not show up?”

        “No, I did. For the first, like, week. And a half.” Victor paused as Henry raised a disproving eyebrow. “I was busy!”

        “Building bodies.”

        “Well, building bodies, studying alchemy, teaching myself how to make a generator out of Home Depot copper wire and a stolen mailbox, figuring out how to disable security systems, etcetera...”

        Henry closed his eyes and counted to ten. “Why?”

        “Why what?”

        “Why did you need to learn how to disable security systems?”

        Victor snorted. “I mean...you didn’t think the University just  gave  me Jascha’s corpse, right?”

        Henry pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back from Victor. “I was under the impression it was donated to the school for science.”

        “Ah. No. I’m pretty sure they wanted to bury him.”

        “So you what? Just took him from the police station?” Anger had leaked into Henry’s words and Victor had to remind himself that he shouldn’t start lying to his lover’s face again no matter how badly he wanted to scrub the irritation from the other’s voice.

        “I’m not nearly that good.” He said slowly. “I, uh, took it from the morgue I was working at. Or, well, ‘working at.’ I only got the job so I could have better access to the bodies.” Henry groaned and dropped his head into his hands. Victor placed a hesitant palm on his shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t take the whole body. I left the legs. Mostly because I couldn’t figure out how to carry them, but-”

        “Oh god, Victor, that makes me feel so much worse.” Henry took a long, shaky breath, screwed his eyes shut, and released it. “Okay,” he said with a thin calmness, “it’s okay. This is fine. Just-” The other reached forward and grabbed Victor’s shoulders firmly. “Tell me more about Konig.”

        “Right…” Victor smiled weakly, “wouldn’t you rather talk about how I sliced up Jascha though?”

        “No.”

        “I probably have a diagram somewhere-”

        “Victor, I swear to the higher powers-”

        “Fine.” Victor crossed his arms tightly and scooted so that his back was pressed up against the wall beside his bed. Every fiber in him cried at the separation from Henry, but considering the other’s expression, something of mild disgust and lingering unease, it was probably best that Victor maintained his own space. “So. Intensive outpatient is a go. Five hours a day, five days a week for the next six weeks or so and that should bring me through to the start of next semester, roughly. And then we reassess and go from there.”

        “And you’ll be home for it all?” Henry asked.

        “Yup.” Victor flashed a bright smile. “Which means I get to bug you nineteen hours a day, seven days a week for the entirety of break.”

        “I’ll be doing thesis work.”

        “Fifteen hours a day.”

        “I also have a life.” Henry added gently.

        “Fuck, you’re killing me.” Victor threw Henry a deeply hurt look. “You are killing your best friend, Henry. How does that feel? How does it feel to see me suffer?”

        “After what you just told me about Jascha? You can suffer.”

        Victor felt the words hit him right in the hollow of his gut and he struggled to force them out. They were being playful, Victor reminded himself. This was just teasing. He forced a more full smile. “You’re the worst.”

        His lover laughed, the majority of his unease apparently pushed aside. “No, that title still belongs to you, my dear.”

        “Victor Frankenstein: Worst Man Who’s Ever Lived. It has a ring to it, I’ll give you that.” Victor smiled cockily. “And I do love being the best at something.”

        Henry rolled his eyes. “Of course you do.”

        For a moment, Victor considered bridging the gap between them, pulling Henry back onto his chest and relaxing in the relative darkness of his shaded room. But he couldn’t do that. His skin was itching again; prickling, clawing irritation, like the rip of hooks just under the surface, and he felt with sudden intensity the need to move. He really didn’t want to be in this room anymore. He really didn’t want to be trapped with Henry either. Not that he was trapped with Henry; that wasn’t a real thing that was actually happening. He could leave whenever. He should leave.

        “Hey,” Henry’s hand just hovered above Victor’s shoulder, “you okay?”

        Victor wasn’t supposed to lie, but he didn’t necessarily have to tell the full truth either. “I’m, uh, really antsy. I want to walk a bit. Or run. Or, like, sprint. For a few hours.”

        Henry tilted his head. “You are not nearly in shape enough to do that, love.”

        “I- fair. Walking, then.” Victor stood from the bed and stretched the kinks out of his back. He thought for a moment. “Do you want to come?”

        “Do you want me to come?”

        “Probably.”

        “But not definitely?”

        “I have made so many decisions in the last four hours,” Victor snagged his shoes from under the dresser, where he’d kicked them off, “I can’t do it anymore. Not for another hour at least.”

        Henry extracted himself from the bed sheets and moved to stand beside Victor. “I’ll join you, then. Just to make sure you keep your coat on, though.”

        Victor grinned sharply. “I don’t need a coat. My fiery passion for you keeps me warm.”

        That earned a small laugh. Victory.

        The newly-turned December air was brisk and striking against Victor’s face. The walk through his neighborhood was fairly dull even in the height of summer since most of the houses were tucked away from the view of the street with only mailboxes marking where new properties emerged from behind the thick masses of slippery elms and white oaks. Convenient if you were keen to steal mailboxes, but otherwise boring.

        Thankfully, Henry didn’t seem to find the scenery quite as dull as Victor did and as they walked, he took Victor’s silence and overlaid it with Walt Whitman quotes about trees and roads and general nature stuff and rants about video games. Victor attempted to listen at first, but his mind kept wandering off and on and out into the lane and back again. Eventually, he gave up and moved his focus to putting one foot in front of the other, letting Henry’s shapeless voice wash over him. It was sweet and calm with a slight midwestern twang, which Henry never seemed to notice. A remnant of his father’s accent, no doubt, but Victor wasn’t about to point that out, lest Henry started trying to train it out of his speech. It was far too cute and far too familiar to Victor.

        It took about a mile to seep the static from his skin, another mile for Victor to recover his voice enough to begin adding back into the conversation, and one more half mile for him to declare that he was way too tired to continue on.

        “You’re ridiculous.” Henry said fondly.

        “Have some sympathy for the dying!” Victor snapped back as he ripped the coat from his shoulders and threw it over Henry’s head.

        The other laughed and pried the trench coat off carefully, draping it over one shoulder. As he did, he seemed to wince slightly. “Please, if this is the thing that kills you...” Henry scratched the back of his neck. “Actually, on second thought, I can see it.”

        “I have a very delicate constitution.” Victor stuck his nose in the air. “It’s the curse of all scientists.”

        “It’s the effects of never exercising. Or leaving the lab. Or doing the basics to take care of yourself.”

        “I take care of myself!” Victor protested.

        “You do  now .” Henry shifted the coat more firmly onto his shoulder. “To an extent.”

        “I’m washing regularly.”

        “And I appreciate it.” Henry’s ruffled his hair like he was William, forcing him to duck away. “It makes sharing a bed with you far more bearable.”

        Victor shot Henry an insulted look.“You should be grateful! The only reason I ever let my hair get longer than a buzzcut was because I wanted to look like some kind of Victorian dandy for you. If I’d kept it short, I’d be so much more efficient.”

        For a brief moment, Henry actually looked touched at the sentiment that Victor had altered his appearance for him. Then his expression shifted into one of discomfort.

        “What?” Victor felt concern crawl into his throat. Was Henry mad? Had he said something wrong?

        “Just...you with a buzzcut.” Henry shivered. “Horrifying.”

        Victor sighed in relief. “I’d look fine.”

        “You’d look…hm.”

        “Not going to finish that thought, huh?”

        “Hm.” Henry crossed his arms tight against his chest, burying his hands under his armpits, appearing as the absolute epitome of displeasure.

        With a rush of affection, Victor patted Henry’s shoulder. “Relax, I’d never do that to you…unless you pissed me off.”

        Henry glared at him. “Really working for that title of World’s Worst Man, are we?”

        “What can I say? I take pride in my work.” Taking a quick second to assess his internal system, Victor decided it was once again acceptable to be touched and promptly plastered himself to Henry’s side. This time, Henry’s wince was noticeable. Victor frowned. “Are we almost done walking?”

        “Uh, yeah.” Henry shifted slightly away from Victor so that he was not pressed quite so flush to his ribs. “Should be about two now. Your father was supposed to bring me to the doctor in the afternoon so-”

        “The doctor?” Victor cast a panicked glance towards Henry. “Why do you need to go to the doctor, is something wrong?” He grabbed his face and turned it left and right.

        “No, no,” Henry rushed, “just, uh, my side is still bothering me. He insisted on checking it out.”

        “Oh.” Victor looked down. He’d checked on Henry’s bruises a few more times since the incident, of course, but between the busy week and his lover’s insistences, he guessed he’d missed that he was still in such pain. God, now he couldn’t even do medicine right. Victor fidgeted with his hands. “We, uh, should get you home then.”

        “Yeah.” Henry gave him a side eye. “Will you be okay?”

        “Oh yeah, I’ll be fine.” It was the truth if a bit stretched. Victor still felt kinda like shit and more than worn thin, but the walk had helped ease the anxiety singing under his skin as did Henry’s presence. Overall, he felt remarkably okay with the way the day had gone. He felt like he was accomplishing something now, at the very least. Even if it meant a return to having to talk about his feelings on a daily basis with strangers. And peers. He was not looking forward to having to talk to peers.

        “Okay.” Henry held the door open for him. “In that case, I’ll see you when I get back.”

        “Yup.” Victor grabbed Henry’s hand in his own and rubbed the knuckle. “Are  you  going to be okay?”

        “Yeah, I- I think so.” Henry offered a weak smile which Victor scrutinized. When he was paying attention, it was stupidly easy to tell when Henry was lying. His tells were as simple to read as the shifts in his voice. A slight raise in the middle, stuttering, knit eyebrows and immediately Victor wanted to take Henry by the arm and shove himself between him and whatever was causing him unjust pain.

        “Okay. Just remember, you don’t have to tell them anything if don’t want to. Doctor’s don’t have the right to demand you tell them what caused your injury.” Victor paused. “Do you want me to come with you?”

        “You’re still under house arrest.”

        “I’ll manage it. I can fight dad and make him let me come.” It wasn’t like his father was very fond of him right now anyway. What was one more strike against Victor? As long as he wasn’t messing with his treatment program, he could manage the man’s passive aggressiveness.

        “No, it’s okay. Really. I’ll be fine.” Henry kissed him softly. Victor leaned into it insistently, suddenly desperate for the feel of Henry on him. He could taste sweetness on his soft lips. Like honey.

        “You’ve been eating toast without me.” Victor muttered as he reluctantly pulled away.

        Henry chuckled softly. “I’ll see you later?”

        “Yup.” Victor gave Henry one more encouraging smile before taking his coat back. He strode towards the living room, shoving his exhaustion aside as he moved. “Hey, William, did you save me any of that toast?”

        “Uh, no. Was I supposed to?”

        “Why don’t any of you love me!”

 

* * *

 

        Jascha drove, and for the first time he didn’t feel like his femurs were shattering. There was the dull ache in his knee from breaking Mason’s face against it, but other than that he was fine. He was too absorbed in Ernest, who was uncannily silent and stiff in the passenger’s seat. He only spoke to instruct Jascha on where to drive, not that he’d really explained where they were going to begin with.

        “Turn here,” Ernest said, his voice thin and barely audible. Jascha turned.

        “Okay,” Jascha said softly, glancing at Ernest. He had pulled his good knee against his chest and rested his chin on top of it, curled in on himself and shivering slightly. Jascha wanted desperately to reach out and touch him, but he wasn’t sure if it would help or hurt.

        “It’s the big grey house. Down there.” Ernest pointed. Sure enough, there was a large grey house that appeared to have been converted to an apartment building. There was a truck in the driveway, but there was enough room next to it for Ernest’s car. Jascha pulled in and parked. As he turned off the engine and moved to get out, Ernest grabbed his arm tightly.

        “Yeah?” Jascha asked, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

        “Please,” Ernest said flatly without looking at him. “Please, don’t go.”

        Jascha settled back in the seat and took Ernest’s hand, lifting it to his lips and kissing his knuckles. “I’m not leaving, I’m just getting out of the car. I’ll come help you out, okay?”

        Ernest’s face broke as he started to cry, his catatonic state broken at last. He covered his mouth with his other hand, trying to stifle his sobs. He nodded, and Jascha kissed his hand one more time before getting out of the car and running over to the passenger’s side.

        “It’s okay,” Jascha said as he opened the door. He bent down and unbuckled Ernest, holding him gently and kissing his damp cheek. Jascha squeezed his eyes shut as his own tears threatened to fall. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “We’re safe now.”

        Ernest nodded weakly and let Jascha help him out of the car. They made it up the stairs to the door and Jascha knocked. Ernest reached directly for the door knob and threw the door open. It pained Jascha to feel Ernest’s body trembling as he clutched his arm for support. Jascha closed the door firmly behind them and locked it instinctively. Once inside, Ernest’s tears turned to harsh sobs.

        “Hey, hey,” Jascha wrapped his arms around him tightly, and he felt Ernest dig his fingers into his shoulders, holding him as close as possible.

        “Lizzie?” There were quick footsteps down the stairs, and Jascha turned and saw an athletic woman with short black hair appear in the stairwell. Her eyes grew wide as she saw the two of them. “Ernest?!” She looked up at Jascha, eyes wide in shock. “Who…? What happened?” 

        “I’m sorry,” Jascha said quickly over Ernest’s shaking shoulders. “Can we, uh. Sit somewhere?” Jascha rubbed the back of Ernest’s neck as he cried into his sweater.

        “Yeah,” Justine said breathlessly. “Yeah, you better come to the couch.” She led them into a room with a south facing bay window overlooking the small backyard. Jascha let Ernest cling to him as they walked, and helped him sit beside him. Justine grabbed a soft blanket from the back of an armchair and wrapped it around Ernest, who curled up close to Jascha with his head in his lap, clutching one of his hands to his chest. With his other one, Jascha stroked Ernest’s hair as he cried into the blanket.

        “Uh, I’m Justine,” She said nervously, eyeing Ernest with concern. She held out her hand and Jascha shook it. “Who are you?” She settled in the armchair.

         "I’m Jascha. I’m, uh, Ernest’s roommate,” Jascha wiped his eyes on his sleeve as he pulled his hand back. They kept welling up against his will.

        “Is Lizzie here?” Ernest asked miserably through the blanket.

        “No, she’s at a gallery show,” Justine said gently. “What’s going on?”

        Ernest shook his head and hid his face in the blanket. “I don’t want to…” He tugged on Jascha’s sweater. “Jascha, I want to lie down. Please.”  

        Jascha kicked his shoes off and propped his back up on a pillow and the arm of the couch, letting Ernest lay more or less on top of him. He helped Ernest wrap himself tighter in the blanket, and rubbed his back gently once he was settled. He eyed Justine with apologetic caution, watching her to see if she was going to say anything that would traumatize Ernest more. She just looked confused and afraid. As Ernest wrapped his arms tightly around Jascha’s chest she sighed.

        “Ernest, is...” She spoke carefully, “...are you two…?”

        Before Ernest or Jascha could answer, the front door opened again. Jascha heard the thud of a heavy bag hit the ground, followed by the sound of shoes getting kicked off. “Justine!” The woman called. “Why was the door locked? Also,  where  is my babiest middle brother? I see his car outside-” A blond woman in a black cocktail dress and bright lipstick rounded the corner and appeared in the doorway. The second Ernest saw her, he got up from Jascha’s embrace and ran to her, enveloping her in a tight hug. “Oh, honey, what’s wrong?”

        Jascha sat up, looking anxiously at Ernest, who wailed apologies into the blond woman’s shoulder. She stood on the tips of her toes to peer over Ernest’s shoulder, sending a confused look to Justine, who shrugged. Jascha shifted awkwardly.

        “Lizzie-” Ernest said between sharp, irregular breaths, “Lizzie, I think- I think I might puke-”

        “O-kay, kiddo. Accompany me to the toilet,” Lizzie guided him to a nearby bathroom. Jascha stood as he heard Ernest vomit, moving to be outside the door. Justine followed him.

        “Ernest, what’s going on?” Lizzie said calmly. The door was open, and Jascha saw her kneeling by him and rubbing his back. Ernest shook his head and retched again. “Listen, buddy, I can’t help if I don’t know what happened.”

        Ernest drew several heaving breaths. “I- He- grabbed my, uh-” He choked on his words. “My dick. A-and- threatened to-” He had another fit of hacking sobs. “...Threatened to kill Jascha. A-and to, uh, make me. Watch.” Ernest shook violently and retched again. Lizzie looked at Justine with panic in her eyes.

        “Who?” She asked, anger rising in her voice. “Who did this?” She looked back at Jascha. “Are...Are you Jascha?” Jascha nodded slowly. Lizzie looked back at Ernest, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Ernest, is Jascha a normal friend, or like…”

        “Roommate.” Ernest said miserably. “He’s my roommate.”

        “Okay, sure,” Lizzie said skeptically. “Roommate.”

        “Can he-” Ernest choked down a deep breath. “Can he come in?”

        “Yeah,” Lizzie held his hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, absolutely.”  

        Jascha squeezed his way into the crammed half-bath, folding himself between Ernest and the wall. Once he sat down, Ernest searched for his hand and squeezed it hard. Lizzie looked at Jascha’s bloody jeans suspiciously, but said nothing. With one hand in Lizzie’s and the other in Jascha’s, Ernest finally took a decent breath.

        “He just- He pinned my arms down and I- I froze, Lizzie!” He screamed into the toilet. “I’m such a--I’m such fucking pussy! I did the same thing with--with Henry’s dad.” He looked to his sister. “Lizzie, I just let it happen. I just...I just let him. Touch me. It’s my own goddamn fault!” He wailed. Jascha bit his lip to keep himself from crying with him.

        “Who, Ernest?” Lizzie said angrily, her voice cracking. “Who did this to you?”

        “It was Mason,” Jascha said softly. “From the frat.” At the mention of his name Ernest started throwing up again. “Ernest…I’m sorry.” Jascha said weakly, smoothing his hair back.

        After catching his breath, Ernest slumped against Jascha’s chest. His breathing was raspy and irregular, but he seemed to have exhausted himself out of being sick.

        “I-” Lizzie started. “We need to call Dad.”

        “No!” Ernest’s eyes shot open. “No, we can’t!”

        “Why?” Lizzie looked at him gently, her eyes heartbroken. “Ernest, he’d want to know. To be here with you.” Ernest shook his head and curled in against Jascha. “He’s- Ernest, he isn’t going to care. That you’re gay.”

        “I’m not-” Ernest said weakly. “Jascha’s a friend…”

        “Yeah, and Justine is my ‘friend,’” Lizzie said sarcastically. “Buddy, I’ve known since you were, like, fifteen.” She rubbed his shoulder soothingly.

        “...How?” Ernest said miserably.

        “Big sister knowledge,” She said lovingly. “Ancient, arcane, and never wrong. Don’t worry about it.”

        “Does Dad…?” Ernest whispered.

        “I don’t know,” Lizzie said softly. “But I know he won’t mind. He had no problem with Justine, or Henry,” She looked at Jascha. “Anyways, you’re with, like, a Gucci model or some shit, so like how could anyone blame you?”

        “M-Mason-” Ernest started.

        “He’s a fucking psycho. And, God, I wish I could cut his throat out and dance in his blood.” Lizzie said through her teeth. Jascha sighed and nodded in agreement. Lizzie’s face softened. “What can we do to help?”

        Ernest cried quietly for a few minutes, and Lizzie and Jascha looked at each other silently. Jascha rested his chin on top of Ernest’s head and closed his eyes, imagining that he could absorb Ernest’s pain and make it go away through willpower alone. He was almost startled when Ernest spoke.

        “I want some water,” he whispered, “and maybe some gum. If you have some.”

        Lizzie looked at Justine, who nodded and disappeared. “Justine’s on it.” Lizzie said calmly. “Can we move you somewhere more comfortable? Back to the couch, maybe? Or, like, Victor or Henry’s room.”

        “Can Jascha come with me?” Ernest asked weakly.

        “Ernest, kiddo, you’re an adult,” Lizzie patted his arm. “Bring him wherever you want.”

        Ernest nodded, and his breathing leveled out. Jascha realized he’d been holding his breath. He shifted as Ernest started to stand, letting him lean against him for support. Ernest flushed the toilet and pressed his head against Jascha’s chest.

        “Where are we headed?” Lizzie asked, taking on a lighter tone, standing up.

        “Couch,” Ernest said flatly. Jascha half-led, half-carried Ernest back to the couch, letting him fold himself between the back of the couch and Jascha’s body. Regaining a bit of his previous shame, Ernest pulled his blanket over him and Jascha before twining their legs and fingers together. Jascha draped his other arm over Ernest’s shoulders, running his fingers gently back and forth along his arm. Jascha finally relaxed when he felt Ernest take a deep breath and sink against him, squeezing his hand lightly. When Justine returned, Ernest refused the water but accepted the gum. Pretty soon he smelled like oranges and mint. Justine sat in the armchair with Lizzie perched on its arm. Justine rested her palm against the base of Lizzie’s back comfortingly as she and Jascha took in each other’s presence.  

        “So…” Lizzie started after a while. “How long…?”

        “We’re not-” Ernest said reflexively. He toyed with Jascha’s hand. “I mean…”

        “About a month.” Jascha said softly. “I...moved here a month ago. We’ve been...friends, for about a month.”

        “And Mas-” Jascha felt Ernest tense, and he shook his head warningly at Lizzie. “...They found out?” Lizzie said carefully.

        “Yeah,” Jascha held Ernest a little tighter.

        “And the blood on your pants…” Justine said quietly. “Whose…?”

        “Not mine.” Jascha felt Ernest relax. He realized he hadn’t told Ernest that it wasn’t his blood. Had he been worried? Probably, Jascha scolded himself. “I, uh…talked with the guy.”

        Ernest moved against him, shifting so he could see Jascha, eyes wide. “You didn’t…”

        Lizzie leaned forward in interest. Jascha felt heat flush to his cheeks. “I, uh…May have broken his nose. And a rib or two.” Lizzie laughed.

        “Yes!” She clapped once. “He can stay. I like this one,” She said more to Justine than to them. “Let’s set his car on fire.”

        Jascha only had eyes for Ernest, who looked at him thoughtfully. Jascha felt a clutch in his chest; a fear that he’d done something to harm him. He held his breath as Ernest let go of his hand, placing his palm against his cheek. “You beat him up? For me?”

        “I-” Jascha glanced away. “Uh, yeah. I- yeah.”

        Ernest nodded slowly and nestled back against his chest. He found his hand again and held it to his lips, which Jascha took as one of his wordless affirmations. He relaxed and resumed running his fingers in soothing strokes along his arm.

        “Ernest,” Justine said kindly, “Is it safe to assume you and Jascha will want to stay here with us, at least until the end of finals?”

        “If that’s okay,” Ernest mumbled against Jascha’s chest. Jascha could feel from his breathing that he was growing tired, even though it was early in the night.

        “Of course it’s okay,” Lizzie reassured. Jascha saw Justine nod as well.

        “Will Victor…?” Ernest asked sleepily. Justine shook her head.

        “He’s at your house with Henry and your dad,” Justine said quietly. “He probably won’t be back here for a while. I hear he’s under house arrest. Again.”

        Ernest nodded, but didn’t speak. His breathing grew deep and heavy, and his grip on Jascha’s hand lessened. Jascha closed his own eyes and succumbed to his own fear, covering his eyes with his unheld hand as the tears ran.

        “Were you there-” Justine asked quietly.

        “Yeah,” Jascha forced himself to speak. “I...saw it happen. I was too slow.” He felt the anger spark again. “If I ever see that guy again, I’ll…” He bit his words back.

        “I know,” Lizzie said softly. “I would too.”

        “How?” Jascha’s voice broke as he looked over at Justine and Lizzie. “How could anyone want to hurt him?” He felt Ernest’s grip tighten on him slightly in his sleep. He wanted to kiss him; to whisper to him that he’d never be too slow again.

        “I don’t know,” Justine said softly. “Some people are just hateful.”

        “But he’s-” Jascha had no idea what to say. There was nothing about Ernest that could even remotely justify anyone even disliking him. “He’s  him !”

        “I know at least one person who was happy to hate him for that…” Lizzie said ruefully.

        “You mean his brother?” Jascha wrinkled his nose. “I...know of Victor.”

        “I’d be surprised if you didn’t at this point,” Lizzie said sadly. She looked at Ernest with a soft gaze of love and concern. “Can you carry him? I want him to sleep in a proper bed.”

        “I think so,” Jascha shifted as carefully as he could, but he felt Ernest stir.

        “Jascha?” Ernest asked blearily.

        “I’m here,” Jascha said quietly. “We’re gonna move upstairs.”   


        “Was I asleep…?” Ernest sat up slowly, his hair sticking up funny on one side.

        “Yeah,” Justine said with a smile. “Which room do you want? Henry, or Victor?”

        Ernest grimaced at the mention of Victor. “Henry. Always Henry.”

        Jascha stood and helped Ernest up. As Justine and Lizzie went up ahead to change out the sheets and set up the bed, Jascha kissed Ernest gently on his forehead. His skin was hot; a stress fever, probably. “How are you feeling?” He asked, channeling all his affection into his voice and touch. He commanded his own tears back so as not to stress Ernest.

        “I’m...okay,” Ernest said hesitantly, leaning his head against Jascha’s clavicle. “Tired.”

        “You can sleep,” Jascha whispered into Ernest’s hair, pulling him close.

        “And you? You’ll stay with me?” Ernest asked, only half-awake.

        “For as long as you want me to,” Jascha closed his eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of Ernest’s skin.  I’m falling in love with you , he thought,  desperately so . As he thought the words, he felt them well in his chest. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

        Ernest hummed in agreement against his neck, sending waves of ease through Jascha’s body. He could feel some of the tension seep out of Ernest’s body like poison from a wound. He laced their fingers together and guided him up the stairs slowly. Justine and Lizzie were waiting outside the room.

        “Did you bring any clothes with you?” Justine asked gently.

        “There are bags in the car,” Jascha said softly. “I, uh, forgot to grab them. I can get them in the morning.”

        “I’ll get them,” Justine said firmly, heading back downstairs.

        “I grabbed a couple pairs of Henry’s pajamas. They’ll probably fit Ernest, but…” She looked Jascha up and down, all six and a half feet of him. “They might be a bit short on you.”

        “I’ll be fine,” Jascha said with a weak smile. “Thank you.”

        Lizzie bounced awkwardly in place. “I, uh. Assume you can handle everything from here?” She eyed Jascha suspiciously.

        “I’m okay, Lizzie,” Ernest whispered. He left Jascha’s arm to wrap his sister in a hug. “Thank you. For sitting with me. And letting us stay here.”

        Lizzie squeezed him tightly. “Always,” She said sweetly. “Absolutely always. You know that Justine, Henry, and I will always have your back. Dad, too.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Get some rest. Justine and I will be right across the hall if you need us.”

        Ernest nodded, and returned to Jascha. “Goodnight,” He said quietly as he closed the door. Once they were alone, he peeled off his clothes almost robotically, pulling on the t-shirt and pajama pants left for him. They fit him a bit too snuggly; he was more muscular than Henry; but he didn’t seem to care. He curled up on the bed, burying himself beneath the covers.

        Jascha took one look at the shirt and the pants and knew they weren’t going to fit, so he just stripped down to the t-shirt he wore under his hoodie. He pulled off the bloodied jeans and left them on the floor in a pile. He pulled the blankets back and got in bed, letting Ernest fold himself tightly against him as he pulled the blankets over them both, nuzzling Ernest’s hair.

        “Are you comfortable?” He asked gently as Ernest shifted to lay on top of him. It was a little harder to breathe, but he was comforted by the complete contact with him.  

        “Mhm,” Ernest said sleepily. “Hold me tighter,” Ernest whispered.

        Jascha obliged, and tightened his arms around him. His skin was still hot and he trembled slightly with each breath. Ernest had nestled his head in the crook between his neck and his chest, so he knew he could hear his heart; how quickly it beat against his ribs. “Ernest?” Jascha asked nervously.

        “Hm?”

        “Uh, I wanted to ask…” Jascha started hesitantly. “What exactly-”

        “Are we?” Ernest interrupted.

        “Yeah,” Jascha forced the fear out of his voice. He did it badly. “Are we- Are we really just friends? Roommates?”

        Every second Ernest was silent, Jascha felt his fear increase. He felt awful for asking. He shouldn’t have brought it up; not with everything else that was going on. “I...don’t think so,” Ernest said softly. He gave a pained laugh. “I, uh, think screwing you in the shower...kinda disqualifies us from a normal friendship…That and, you know, everything else that’s happened.” Ernest sighed. “I...don’t know what that makes us. I- I don’t think I can name it now.”

        Jascha relaxed a little, but it still stung. “Okay,” He said quietly. “Okay. That’s alright.”

        “I do want to, though,” Ernest said gently, squeezing Jascha’s hand, “Find a name for it.”

        Jascha felt warmed, and he pressed a kiss to the bridge of his nose. It was as close to his lips as he could easily reach. He felt Ernest’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek as he closed his eyes, and he let him shift so he was at head-level with him. Even though it was pitch black, he could feel Ernest’s warm brown eyes looking at his face. Jascha sighed as he felt Ernest run a hand through his long hair, the skin tingling where his fingers brushed. It came as no surprise to him when he felt Ernest’s lips against his own. He missed them when he pulled away.

        “Jascha, I-” Enrest started, tripping over his words. “Thank you. For, like, staying. I- We’ve, like, had a really, really bad week…” Ernest pressed his forehead to Jascha’s. “It means a lot to me.” He felt Ernest draw a trembling breath. “You...mean a lot to me.”

        Jascha felt the force of the words hit deep in his chest and he held Ernest close, burying his face in his shoulder. He kissed Ernest’s neck, closing his eyes as he stroked his hair and kissed the edge of his ear. He let him settle against his chest and sink his body into his own, savoring the surety of his warmth and weight. He stroked Ernest’s back softly until he felt his breathing become deep and level, lulling them both into fractured and uneasy sleep.


	27. Healing Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry goes to the doctor. Victor has a conscience. Jascha talks to Justine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thank you so much for reading our most recent update! As always, comments and kudos make our day!
> 
> Content warnings for: body horror, nightmares and panic attacks, mentions of assault.

        Henry hated going to the doctor. He would fight it with every ounce of his might if he could, but he was currently very injured and very tired. There was a lot to that particular insecurity but the crux of it was he hated being touched. There were three people on this earth that were allowed to touch him in any sort of way that could possibly be construed as intimate and the doctor was definitely not one of them. He absentmindedly worked his fingers into the pad of his thumb.

        If Henry were being analytical, he would probably come to the conclusion that he didn’t like being touched by people because he rarely got any kind of positive touch from his parents when he was little and it only ever got worse. The mere thought of him exposing his skin to a complete stranger made him want to wretch.

        He just didn’t want to be injured. It seemed like an obvious conclusion, but the vulnerability that came with needing to be taken care of by someone else was disgusting. Unless it was Victor or Alphonse. Then again, it took him years to get to that point with them. Other people could only hurt him more.

        Henry knew what a cracked rib felt like. He’d had them enough times before to know that this one was only slightly worse than the other ones. So, naturally, there was no way he would have to get surgery and be given anesthesia. No way in the world. The thought made him want to peel off his own skin. The image of someone elbow deep in his chest cavity, drenched in his blood and viscera, just being able to do whatever they wanted to him made him regret having a body at all. He would exist best as a concept in the void, shimmering in the overhanging firmament of the earth. He imagined someone holding his heart in their hands and his blood running between their fingers and dripping to the floor. That was his heart. It was his. And no one else could touch it.

        He could see doctors in white coats peeling back the flaps of his muscle and fat and taking each of his ribs in their hand and breaking them by the base of his spine. They placed them neatly on a steel tray and then moved to his exposed organs. They took out his intestines, pulling them like rope. On and on and on until they had to cut them out of his body. They lay in the doctor’s arms like a twitching snake.

        Next, they moved to his liver and took joy in taking it apart in thin slices, the brown tissue falling in their hands like gossamer. They put it between their teeth and partook of his own flesh. Then, they took all his smaller organs and cut them out with the scissors found in high school dissection kits and threw them in buckets to be fed to pigs. They wrapped their fingers around his lungs and squeezed the air from them, relishing the feeling of the tissue rumpling in their palms. They used the strength in their arms to pull his lungs out of his chest. They left the heart, still beating, for last. With razors as thin as spidersilk they took it out of his chest and watched as it contracted in their hands. They sank their teeth into it, blood pouring down their faces and pooling on the floor. The viscosity of the fluid would soon turn to jelly and be impossible to scrub away. His chest sat hollow and void until they restitched it up with cotton and rags.

        “Henry?” A voice asked. “Henry? We’re here.” He looked up at Alphonse. He had Victor’s eyes.

        “I’m fine,” Henry said as he unbuckled himself and walked to the door. His legs felt like air and it was difficult to breath. It was fine. This was fine. It was a totally normal thing for people to do when they were injured. If they didn’t, then they died. That’s all there was to it. Henry took a deep breath and it burned.

        They waited in silence and Henry tried hard to focus on the writing in some sporting magazine, but he couldn’t put his mind to it. Alphonse had to get Henry’s attention when his name was called.

        He followed a nurse through shiny white hallways to a shiny white room. It smelled of soured lemon and Clorox bleach. The glare off the tiles made his eyes hurt. He was aware, in the back of his head, that someone was talking to him and that he was answering. Probably truthfully? He wasn’t quite sure, but it was a bad idea to lie to medical professionals.

        He took off his shirt and let himself be examined. He was dealing with this well and was rather proud. As far as he could tell, no one noticed he was having a small anxiety attack. Perfect, that’s just the way it’s supposed to be. Well, it was fine until the person touched his injured rib.

        “No,” he said, not quite a yell. “Don’t touch me. Please, please, please don’t touch me.”

        “I...does it hurt?” The doctor asked. Henry could feel the muscles in his eyes twitching and darting around the room. It did. It hurt a lot, but he had to be normal. Just a normal human. A totally normal, not traumatized human.

        “I’m sorry. I just got...nervous,” Henry said. The doctor smiled sadly. “Yes, it does hurt.”

        “It’s okay. Far worse things have happened,” she said and continued with her work.

        The feel of her fingers against his skin set it on fire. There were tests and things and words spoken and then it was done.

        He drove home with Alphonse and talked about what was going to happen: bed rest, ice, a lot of painkillers, and an order to come back if it still hurt in two months. Henry thought back to the last week. At this rate, two months would never come and he’ll just be stuck in Purgatory forever. 

        When he got home, he went straight to Victor. He took some time floundering on the stairs. Did Victor really want to see him? He seemed distant this morning? Was it just Konig? Or something more? No, he wanted to see Victor. He wanted to feel his skin against his own and be convinced that his body was still in one piece.

        He knocked on the door. “Victor, can I come in?” he asked.

        Victor opened the door. “You’re alive.”

        “I am alive and I have a prescription for rest,” Henry held out his hand. “Will you rest with me?”

        Victor took his hand and twined their fingers together. He led Henry to his bed and made sure he was comfortable.

        “Shit, I forgot ice,” Henry bat his eyes sweetly. “Darling. Sunshine. Light of my life. Will you please get me an ice pack from downstairs?”

        Victor smiled and happily obliged. His blankets were warm and soft and swallowed him as if he were a child. They smelled like Victor, even more so now that he had clean hair. He came back and sat next to Henry. He shifted and put his head on Victor’s lap.

        “What’s the prognosis?” he asked.

        “Bedrest. Ice. Pain meds,” Henry sighed. His limbs felt heavy and the air around him, thick.

        “So they can’t do anything?” Victor’s voice dropped.

        “Nope. Unless nothing gets better in two months. Then it’s surgery for me.” Anything but that.

        “If I were a doctor--”

        “If you were a doctor you’d do the exact same thing. It’s okay, Victor. I’ll live.” Henry felt Victor’s grip tighten as he shivered.

        “Was it as bad as normal?” he asked.

        “Worse,” Henry closed his eyes and immediately had to reopen them. “I started daydreaming about them just removing all of my organs and eating them.”

        “Henry--”

        “I know it’s bad. I know it’s not what normal people think when they go to the doctor.” Henry whispered. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

        Victor kissed the back of his head and the warmth of his breath was comforting. “Years of abuse and trauma, probably,” he said. Henry grabbed his hand and held it to his mouth.

        “Did you ever think about that when you were...fixing Jascha?”

        “Eating his organs...maybe once or twice.” Henry pulled away. He knew. He knew he was joking, but it still. “I’m sorry.” Victor reached towards Henry but stopped himself. “I shouldn't joke about stuff like that right now. I’m sorry.”

        Henry took his hand again. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I called you the worst person alive earlier.”

        “You were just kidding,”

        “I know, but that was mean. After everything you’ve done for me. You’re not the worst person.” Henry closed his eyes. Sleep could take him now and he’d be content forever. “I love you very much.”

        “I love you too,” Victor ran his free hand over Henry’s side, minding the ice and the injury.

        “Can I ask you more about Jascha?” Henry nuzzled closer against Victor’s stomach.

        “I thought that would just make you upset.”

        “I’m...just morbidly curious. Sometimes it’s hard not to imagine you putting me back together if something happened. Is that bad?” Henry blushed but he wasn’t quite sure why.

        “I don’t think so? Does that mean you trust me?” Victor asked.

        “More than any surgeon living or dead,” he kissed Victor’s fingertips and Victor kissed his ear. “Did you intend to resurrect Jascha Simonis or was it just an accident?”

        “I knew I would be using Jascha’s brain and I knew it would retain information, but I didn’t think it would be so complete. Most of him is complete, so I guess it’s not that much of a surprise. His legs were kinda unsalvageable and it was easier to you know, replace a whole arm rather than just his hands. I didn’t really pick Jascha for Jascha. He was just kinda...there.”

        “It’s just so hard for me to grapple with,” Henry admitted. “On the one hand, you stole a dead body from grieving parents and probably made that situation a whole lot worse and that’s terrible.” Victor tense beneath Henry and he rubbed small circles into his knee. “And on the other hand, you gave Jascha Simonis a second chance at life. He’s alive, Victor. And yeah, you really fucked some things up, but he’s alive. And he has friends and maybe someday he could talk to his family and play violin again. He gets to live again and that’s amazing.”

        “I wonder if Jascha wishes he were living or dead,” Victor ran his hand through Henry’s hair.

        “I don’t know. I hope he’s happy he’s alive. He and Ernest really care about each other. That might be worth it.” Henry didn’t know much about the technicalities of life and death other than he was emphatically living and that meant he was supposed to breathe and have a pulse. Contact with Victor’s skin was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. He felt like air. “Do you think he remembers what it’s like to be dead?”

        “I...haven’t thought about it.” Victor’s fingers lingered on his hairline.

        “I feel like that would be traumatic,” Henry said. “But I imagine it would be the first question people asked.” He felt like his insides were in the wrong places. Panic started to rise in his chest even though nothing was wrong. “Victor?” he asked.

        “Yes, love?” he whispered.

        “Can you make sure my heart is beating?”

 

* * *

 

        He did. All through the evening with a finger pressed to his pressure points and into a night of restless sleep, Victor made sure Henry’s heart remained strong and steady, keeping his ear pressed tight to the other’s chest. It paid tribute to how thoroughly the doctor’s visit had messed him up, that Henry let him spend upwards of nine hours literally plastered to his side, but then again, this was the new pattern. It was funny. Victor hadn’t ever really considered himself the touchy-feely type. That was more Ernest’s problem; the whole needing to be constantly touching someone act. Then again, Henry always was different. Victor just needed to make sure he didn’t accidentally turn into Ernest over the course of break.

        Henry shifted in his sleep and Victor moved to accommodate him, making sure his body was angled away from the bruises and cracked (possibly broken) rib.

        Tomorrow was the first great trial. Showing up and getting through the day without threatening to kill anyone or actually killing anyone. Konig hadn’t given him much time to get back on his feet with this thing, instead throwing him in the deep end with little more than some paperwork and a pair of deflated floaties. Per the usual. For all that man’s skill as a therapist, he wasn’t the most gentle or sensitive. Or, like, elegant. Which was probably why his father had started bringing him to Konig in the first place. Victor usually couldn’t bullshit his way out of talking about his feelings with him when he was young because if he tried, Konig would just start using his warlock magic to reveal Victor’s deepest, innermost secrets. The doctor’s skill almost made up for the fact that Victor was pretty sure he still prescribed to the idea of medieval bloodletting as a valid form of medical treatment. Almost.

        Henry moved again and Victor frowned as his heart’s pace quickened and evened, quickened and evened. He reached up a hand in the dark and ran it through the other’s hair in what he hoped was a comforting manner. He almost wanted to speak, but that would break the silence of the room which was rapidly becoming his only sanctuary and his prison in one.

        Victor sighed. Okay, brain, time to cool it with the drama, it’s just a bedroom. Under his hand, Henry’s heart returned to a steady beat. Perfect. He should sleep now.

        Victor closed his eyes. Focused on Henry’s soft breath and the dull hum of the baseboard radiators. Tried to count sheep.

        It was super ineffective.

        He opened his eyes again and stared at the hazy outline of the ceiling as a wave of dull edged thoughts swarmed his mind.

        Did Jascha remember? What it was like to be dead? What it was like to die? If he did that would be completely amazing. After all, nobody had ever (to his knowledge) come back from the dead before save for those weird Christian ‘I went to heaven and God has a six pack’ types. If Jascha could tell them exactly what it felt like to die, the act of it, the aftermath. Was it slow? Painful? All at once or an even ticking; even as Henry’s heart under his ear? Did your life really flash before your eyes like the movies said? Victor tried to imagine it. His life would be a lot of stomping around with his arms crossed and pining after Henry without realizing it and doing homework or lab work maybe with a few thrilling seconds of police confrontations and such thrown in there for added effect.

        But then again, was there an afterlife? Victor wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He didn’t think there would be since he’d been raised with enough healthy scepticism to know god or gods were complete bullshit, but then again. He wasn’t exactly keen to be proven wrong.

        Henry’s arm moved to wrap more firmly around Victor. The heaviness of his movements meant he was still asleep, but lightly so. His heart was sounding odd again.

        Did Jascha have nightmares? Did he have panic attacks? Did he remember the way his body should look, the way his hands should move, the way his heart should beat? Did he know that the liver he used to filter the frat’s cheap beer had once belonged to a woman named Karoline Hasig, a religious freak who had never touched a drop of the stuff in her entire life? Did he know that the lungs he used to draw breath were sourced from Mahumand Khan, a swimmer with a talent for long distance freestyle and a small daughter still at home, blissfully unaware that her dad’s body had been so violated prior to burial? Did he know his legs used to beat under the table across from Victor in organized patterns, connected to Samuel Beckermann, his freshman lab partner who had died of alcohol poisoning three days before his twenty-fourth birthday?Did he know that his too-clumsy fingers, the ones that would never quite suit a violin player, were that of a nameless convict, a murderer who turned up in the morgue to be cremated, burned and shoved away and forgotten? Victor never had found out whose life that man had taken, but the bruises around his throat indicated that his own life had been stolen away by vindictive peers.

        Did Jascha know that Victor had kept his hands frozen in ice? His real, actual hands? Or that he’d not given them back on purpose? Did the musician know that Victor had wanted to see how long it would take him to relearn the strokes of the chord? To adjust his muscle memory to a new set of fingers, to a new existence? If he could? If he wanted to? Did his experiment know why Victor had labeled him such?

        Did they all know? Did Ernest know? Did Henry know? Would he find out? Would he abandon Victor? Would Jascha take revenge, he wondered? He had the hands of a murderer even if he didn’t have the mind of one. His fingers knew. They remembered.

        How much did he know of the Jascha that had existed before Jascha, Victor’s own personal build-a-bear creation? How much did he understand? How much had he found out about the way Victor had ripped his organs out with hand and scalpel, thrown away his heart like a candy wrapper?

        Did Jascha even want to be alive?

        Victor ran his hand lightly across Henry’s chest. Still beating. Still there. “It’s okay, my love.” He spoke softly into the dark, no longer afraid of the break in the silence. He tried to imagine what Henry’s response to his worries would be so he could repeat them without waking the other. “‘What’s done is done. You made a mistake, but it doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re not a bad person.’ I’m not...” Victor breathed out deeply, “‘we’re not bad people. We’ve never been bad people...’” He stopped speaking for Henry. “You...you didn’t ask for the things that happened to you. And I made a mistake. I made a fuck ton of mistakes.” He paused. “And I can’t fix them. And I can’t fix you. And you wouldn't ask me to anyway.” Henry stirred again and Victor stopped talking. Don’t wake the poor stressed poet.

        No way but forward.

        “We’re going to be okay.” Victor breathed after a moment. “There’s no other choice.”

        He forced himself to lie still and be completely quiet and think of nothing but Henry’s heart, rhythmic and slow, fast and frantic, present and strong.

        The morning came too soon and also way too late. As Victor set about getting ready for the day, having left Henry to his continued, doctor-enforced bedrest, his father appraised his appearance with something akin to skepticism.

        “Did you sleep at all?” He asked tonelessly as he poured himself another cup of coffee.

        Victor smirked. “I was kept awake late, father, tormented by the weight of my many heinous sins.”

        His father’s expression did not change. “Well. It’s nice to see your humor is returning.”

        “It’s not humor. I’m a monster in man’s skin, an affront to god and my own creation.”

        “Mhm.” His father took another sip of his coffee, keeping lazy eye contact as Victor stumbled his way around the kitchen. “Are you going to be able to start today?” His voice was a challenge which melted into a kind of dubious gentleness. Sympathy for the damned, he guessed.

        Victor clenched his jaw. “Yup. I’m good to go.” He swept across the counter, snagging a cup of coffee and pouring a cup and a half of sugar into it. He grimaced as he drank the sludge. “I’m the picture of fucking health.”

        “Language.” His father picked up his keys. “Let’s go.”

        Victor steeled himself at the words. He took his coffee mug with him to the car. The brown muck was a pretty reliable lifeline when other ones couldn’t be used. It had gotten him through many nights before, many study sessions, many sleepless endeavors. He was already feeling more perky. Or jittery. In any case, he wasn’t going to fall asleep and isn’t that all that really mattered?

        More silence in the car ride. More NPR. Victor stared out the window, watching the exits he knew whip by, 51, 52, 53. He frowned. “Hey, uh, dad?”

        “Yes.”

        “Sometime later this week, could we maybe swing by my lab at school? I have some stuff stored there that I don’t want sitting all break.”

        “Victor,” his father shot him a look, “if you try to bring sliced up frog legs into my house-”

        “No, no, it’s just notes.” Mostly. Or, well, not at all. All the notes in the lab were destroyed by water and exposure. And there was probably still blood everywhere from Jascha’s hand. Had he put that extra small intestine away?

        Victor stiffened in his seat. God, he sincerely hoped that the lab had stayed locked. Nobody from the school had accused him of homicide yet though so he was probably safe.

        His father relaxed slightly. “Okay. Fine. We’ll go when I have free time.”

        Right, okay. Get that one squared away. Exit 56. His father took it.

        The coffee was near to humming through his veins when they finally arrived and Victor harnised it without reserve, pushing his jittery hands into make his shoulders more square and his crawling skin into an easy kind of smile. He could be charming...when he wanted. When he really was intent on making an act of it. He felt he should try to be now.

        A nurse met them in the lobby, all pleasant smile and calmness even as Victor already felt like he was dying. He barely paid attention as she talked with his father, taking a long moment to examine the waiting room with its white walls and trendy couches. A picture of a violin hung above the doorway to the ward. That was great. This was great. If he was going to do this, might as well thrown in some dramatic irony. They’d probably start playing one of Jascha’s concert CDs at some point.

        As if on cue, the receptionist behind the desk fiddled with the radio and a classical ballet began to float out across the still room.

        “Oh, you’re fucking with me.” Victor hissed.

        Both the nurse and his father paused to look at him. Victor brightened his grin. “I, uh. Just realized I forgot to turn off the coffee maker this morning.”

        His father gave him a doubtful once over. “I’ll call Henry to have him take care of it.”

        “Cool.”

        His father cleared his throat and returned his gaze to the nurse. “So I pick him up around three?”

        “Yes, sir, though we may run a little late or early depending.” She smiled at Victor. “Cell phones aren’t strictly permitted, but if you’d like to leave yours with the front desk, they’ll take care of it for you.”

        “Right. I know the routine.” Victor pulled the block from his pocket and set it down on the desk. “So should I just follow you or…?”

        The nurse glanced over the clipboard in her hand. “Yup, we’ll head back in just a moment. Konig has gotten all your paperwork sorted so you should be set to go.” The door swung open again as a woman stode in and towards the front desk. The nurse glanced to her then smiled again at Victor. “Wait here just a second.”

        “Great.”

        As she floated away, Victor allowed his smile to drop.

        “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” His father’s voice was odd now. More full and compassionate than it had been in at least a week and with genuine worry seeming to crease his brow. He placed a hand on Victor’s shoulder firmly, giving a deep pressure he drank in with eagerness.

        “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’ll be great.” Victor attempted a weak grin as he made himself lean away from the touch. “Last chance, right?”

        For a brief second, Victor thought he could see his dad’s jaw clench. “Yes.” He said slowly. “Last chance.”

        “Okay, Mr. Frankenstein, we're ready to go!” The nurse called enthusiastically. What she was enthused about, Victor had no clue. He looked to his now visibly anxious father and offered an encouraging if fake smile. “See you at three.” He walked forward to join the nurse and the other woman, following their procession at a quick pace.

        The woman glanced to him as they walked, taking in his mused hair and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. “What’s going on with you?” She asked in a mutter the nurse couldn’t hear.

        “I’m a necrophiliac.” Victor answered assuredly. “I created a sexy man from dead bodies parts specifically because I’m a repressed homosexual who wanted to fuck and feel like god.”

        She leaned back, looking sick, and didn’t try talking to him again.

        Victor smirked to himself. If he was going to do this, he would at least have a little fun with it.

 

* * *

 

_“Please, I beg you, he’s my baby, you need to let me-_

_“Ma’am, I need you to sit-_

_“Идиот! Let us through, you-_

_“Jascha!-_

 

        “Jascha?” Jascha couldn’t move his legs. He couldn’t because they weren’t there. Only the pain was there. The splitting of his femurs lengthwise; the carnal sound of tearing flesh. The heavy, saline scent of blood mingling with motor oil and electrical smoke. He tried to reach for his legs; to free them from the tangle of metal, glass, and plastic the truck made with his father’s car. Someone tied something tight around the highest part of his thigh, at the base of his hip and pulled until he couldn’t feel anything but the mind-numbing pain of the pressure. He watched as blue-gloved hands used a gleaming saw to cut him free from his own thigh; heard the horrible, wet grind of the blade against his bone. Another set of gloved hands bound the other leg but managed to lift the ruined car from him enough to slide it out. He shrieked as the pain turned from crushing to burning, his blood desperately trying to return from where it had been trapped. He heard someone shout that this was wrong; that the leg needed to be severed before extraction. Someone else said it didn’t matter; that he’d die from blood loss anyways. Something to do with the femoral artery being torn from the inside.

        He was sobbing and begging in every language he knew, crying for his mother and pleading for his father’s forgiveness. He’d loved that car, and had only let him borrow it so he could drive himself to the concert. He blacked out for a second, and woke to a sterile white room in the back of a van. There was a mask over his face and plastic tubes in his arms. He reached towards one of the paramedics; he was trying to ask where he was; but his voice failed him. The paramedic squeezed his hand and returned gently it to his chest. Something was beeping. 130, 180, 200, then 250 beats per minute. Like a metronome. Then a flat tone. His mother was wailing, and his father was shouting. Was someone saying his name? He wanted to reach towards his mother’s voice. Why couldn’t he feel his hands? He felt cold, and his head was tingling. Why was he so cold? Why couldn’t he see? “Jascha!”

        His eyes opened. There were...constellations on the ceiling of this ambulance. And someone was shaking his shoulder. There was no beeping, and no mask over his face, and the paramedic had beautiful freckles and soft curls and doe-like eyes. And was Ernest. He wasn’t dying in an ambulance. He was in bed and Ernest was crying and saying his name.

        “...Ernest?” Jascha sat up, and placed a hand on Ernest’s cheek. “What’s wrong?”

        “You were screaming,” Ernest had his hands on either side of his face, wiping away tears Jascha hadn’t noticed he was crying. Justine and Elizabeth stood in the doorway. “Something about your legs. I- It was half in Russian, and I couldn’t understand.” Ernest pulled him into a hug.

        “I’m sorry,” Jascha said, half-dazed as he held Ernest. “I was screaming…?”

        “Yeah, my dude. We thought you were dying.” Lizzie said from the door.

        “Are you sure you’re okay?” Justine said gently.

        “I think so,” Jascha said. “Ernest, are you okay?” Ernest nodded.

        “Yeah,” He said, wiping his own eyes. “I was just worried about you.”

        “In that case, we’re gonna go back to bed,” Lizzie said with a yawn. “It’s, like, four. Try to get a couple more hours of sleep.”

        As Lizzie and Justine left, Jascha turned his attention back to Ernest. He was shaking, and looking at him with wide-eyed panic as he stroked his hair. Jascha leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.

        “I’m okay,” He said softly. “Truly.”

        “I know,” Ernest said hesitantly. “It’s just...You looked like you were in so much pain. Like, more pain than I’ve ever seen anyone be in.”

        Jascha sighed. “It was a dream about the accident,” He whispered. There was no point in lying; Ernest knew he had trouble with cars.

        “It was really bad, huh?” Ernest said gently, his shaking subsiding slowly.

        “It was...worse than you can imagine,” Jascha said quietly. He pulled the blankets back over both of them, and lay on his side so that Ernest was tucked against him without trapping his legs. He wrapped one arm around Ernest’s stomach, pressing his hand against his chest. Ernest hugged his arm and sighed.

        “Looks like neither of us are having good dreams tonight…” Ernest said weakly.

        “You’re dreaming about it?” Jascha felt a stabbing pain in his chest. He held Ernest tighter, wishing that the closeness would take away his trauma.

        “Yeah,” Ernest said softly. Jascha didn’t press for more. He had a sense of what the dreams contained, and he knew speaking about them would just make them feel more real. He let himself drift back into a light sleep, hoping that Ernest would settle into more pleasant dreams.

        He stirred from his sleep again when he felt Ernest’s grip on him tighten. He glanced at the small digital clock on the bedside table. It was earlier than he thought- only eight in the morning. He lifted his hand from Ernest’s shoulder and wiped the sleep from his eyes.

        “Are you awake?” Ernest asked, muffled by the quilt.

        “Yeah,” Jascha said. “How are you feeling?” He felt Ernest look for his arm, so he wrapped it back around him.

        “...Bad.” Ernest said quietly. His voice was still raspy from the previous night.“I’ve been up since six. Maybe five.”

        “I wish you’d have woken me,” Jascha sighed. “I...wasn’t really sleeping, either.”

        Ernest nodded against his chest. “I need to shower. I feel awful.” Jascha shifted so that he could sit up, and immediately felt Ernest’s absence as he moved off of him. Ernest sat beside Jascha, his eyes glassy behind the dark circles. He ran a hand through his tangled curls, yanking at the snarls that trapped his fingers.

        “You okay?” Jascha asked gently. He held his hand against Ernest’s cheek. His skin was cooler now, though the color was still gone. When Ernest blinked he felt his long eyelashes brush his fingers. Ernest wouldn’t look at him.

        “Can you, like...come with me to the bathroom? I don’t really want to be alone.”

        “No problem,” Jascha said, pulling back the covers and standing up to stretch. He felt nauseous from exhaustion, but he wasn’t going to show it and risk making Ernest feel worse.

        They went across the hall to the bathroom, where he sat on the countertop of the sink as Ernest went through his morning routine. They brushed their teeth together, and Jascha washed his face. They didn’t speak, but after completing each of his tasks Ernest returned to lean against Jascha. Each time, Jascha pressed a kiss to his hand or head. When the time came for Ernest to shower, he helped him undress since his hands were unsteady. Ernest stopped once they reached his underwear, taking Jascha’s hands off of his hips and wrapping them instead around his shoulders. Jascha held him tightly, burning with a mixture of hatred for Mason and the desperate desire to make Ernest feel safe again.

        “Ernest,” Jascha whispered as Ernest buried his face in his t-shirt. “Talk to me.”

        “I…” Ernest said weakly. “I, uh...I can still feel his,” Ernest drew a sharp breath, and his shoulders trembled slightly. “...hands. Down there.”

        Jascha pressed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw. He should have just finished the job back at the frat and killed Mason. He forced his anger down and kissed Ernest’s temple. “Is there anything I can do to help?” He asked gently.

        Ernest hesitated and shook his head slowly. “I-I don’t think so. I don’t know.” He wrapped his arms tighter around Jascha. “I’m sorry…”

        “No, no,” Jascha said quietly. “You don’t need to apologize.”

        Ernest pulled away just far enough that there was room for him to wriggle out of his boxers. He kept his eyes averted from Jascha, and his face was contorted with shame and fear as he stepped out of them. Jascha knelt by the bathtub and started the water for him, letting Ernest take some space to breathe. Once the water was the right temperature, he started the shower.

        “Shower’s ready,” He said gently. “Can I go get you some clean clothes?”

        Ernest shook his head as he got into the shower. “Please, just stay.”

        Jascha sat on the floor beside the shower, resting his head on the wall and keeping his eyes closed. He could hear Ernest’s breathing, sharp and uneven, and knew he was crying as he bathed himself. When he heard the water shut off he stood, holding out a large soft towel. Ernest wrapped himself in it as if it were a blanket, and leaned his soaking head against Jascha’s shoulder. Jascha ached to hold him, but part of him knew that it would be better to let Ernest decide when and how he wanted to be touched. For now, he wanted to lean his head against Jascha’s chest, and that was okay.

        “I feel pathetic,” Ernest said miserably. “I can barely handle showering. How am I supposed to go to class?”

        “Why would you go to class?” Jascha asked, placing his hand on the back of his head. “No one would expect you to go, not after what happened.”

        Ernest pulled away and shook his head. “It’s finals,” He said gravely. “I need to go.”

        “That’s insane,” Concern spiked into his voice. “You can’t be serious.”

        “Jascha, I have to,” Ernest urged. He reached out and took Jascha’s hand. “I can’t flunk this semester. Even with...what happened.” He started for the door, only letting go of Jascha’s hand to open it. Once they were back in the room he dropped the towel and started going through Henry’s drawers, mindlessly finding clothes to put on.

        “If you have to go, I’m coming with you,” Jascha paced anxiously. Lacking his bag of clothes, he put the bloody jeans back on. “I won’t let you go alone.”  
“If we’re seen together, things will be worse,” Ernest looked at him, meeting his eyes with tired determination. Jascha stopped pacing.

        “If I’m not with you, I can’t keep you safe,” Jascha said quietly.

        “I’m not a kid, Jascha. I’m a varsity athlete and a decent sprinter. I can look out for myself.” Ernest almost glared at him. Almost. Jascha shifted in discomfort.

        “I know you can,” Jascha said softly. “But you don’t have to.”

        Ernest’s eyes softened. He looked better now that he was dressed. He was wearing a lilac button up with the top button undone, and he’d found a pair of black jeans which fit him a little too tightly in the thighs and hips. If Jascha weren’t completely terrified and exhausted, it would have been tempting to insist on Ernest taking them off again. Ernest caught him looking and smiled weakly, striking a pose.

        “How do I look?” He said gently. For a moment things felt almost normal.

        “Purple is a good color on you,” Jascha said, though his eyes were drawn to the pants.

        Ernest closed the distance between them and pulled Jascha’s face down to kiss him. Jascha ran his hands over his shoulders gently, treating him as if he were made of glass. His calm seemed so fragile and he didn’t want to do anything to break it.

        Jascha trailed him downstairs, sitting near him and making sure he was never out of arm’s reach. Ernest was still largely unable to talk about what he needed or what happened, but he would reach out a hand when he needed it to be held or lean against Jascha’s shoulder when he needed reassurance. When the time came for Ernest to drive to class, Jascha suddenly understood why his mother had been inconsolable when he started college. He wouldn’t be able to see if he was safe, and that was terrifying.

        “Are you sure I shouldn’t go with you?” He asked, hovering as Ernest got his shoes on.

        “Lizzie is going to drive me,” Ernest said gently. As he stood he kissed Jascha’s hand, apparently over his fear of his sister or Justine knowing what they were.

        “Can I come? Just in the car?” Jascha asked, desperation creeping into his voice. He was starting to wonder whether it was fear for Ernest, or if he himself was scared of being alone.

        “It’ll be better if we aren’t seen together,” Ernest said again, though Jascha noticed the wistfulness in his voice and gaze.

        Jascha was aware that they were being watched, at a respectful distance, by Justine and Lizzie. This is what prevented him from kissing Ernest and insisting that they stay near one another. That, and Ernest didn’t want him to. So he stood quietly, and let Ernest hug him for a long time before he moved to grab his bag. Jascha followed them out to the car, squeezing Ernest’s hand one last time before Lizzie drove him away.

        When Jascha returned to the house he felt like all the air had left his lungs and his body was too heavy. He wandered through the house, back to the couch, and collapsed, burying his face in his arms. Unlike Ernest, he wasn’t much for crying. When his emotions overwhelmed him, as they did now, he simply teared up and got a bad headache.

        “I made you coffee,” Justine said gently. Jascha unburied his face and sat up, sweeping his hair back. Justine looked at him sympathetically.

        “When will they come back?” Jascha took the coffee gratefully.

        “Lizzie said she was gonna hang out near his classes, so probably not until this afternoon,” Justine said thoughtfully as she sat in the armchair across from him. “Maybe sooner, if Ernest gets overwhelmed.”

        Jascha nodded and took a sip of his coffee. He didn’t normally like it black, but he was too tired to care enough to ask for sugar or cream. The warmth of it comforted him.

        “So you beat up a man for your roommate, huh?” Justine asked with a kind smile.

        “We’re...a bit more than roommates.” Jascha conceded. “And I didn’t beat up a man. I beat up a monster,” Jascha said bitterly. “I should have just killed him.”

        Justine shook her head. “I know the feeling,” She said gently. “But trust me, if you’d killed him Ernest would be having an even worse time. He’s a complete wuss about violence.”  
“We played Silent Hill and he had nightmares,” Jascha said affectionately. That had been one of the very first times he and Ernest really spent time together.

        “That follows,” Justine nodded. “How long have you two been more than roommates?”

        Jascha sighed. “What counts as abnormal roommate behavior?” Justine shrugged. “Well...He started talking to me frequently a month ago. Started sleeping in my bed with me about three weeks ago.” Justine smiled and Jascha blushed. “Things, uh, escalated quickly, I guess.” It hadn’t been that long, really. It just felt like years.

        “People bond faster under stress,” Justine said calmly. “Doesn’t make the feelings any less real; just speeds them along.” Jascha nodded. “Is he your first boyfriend?”

        “Oh, he’s not my-” Jascha started.

        “Oh, trust me, he is,” Justine interrupted. “I can tell from how you look at each other.”

        “What?” Jascha blinked in surprise, and drank more of his coffee, thankful for the excuse to look away. He felt fidgety and anxious.

        “It’s okay! Really, it is,” Justine added quickly. “Take all the time you two need to figure out labels or whatever. God knows it took me and Lizzie ages.”

        “How do you do it?” Jascha asked softly, looking at her again. “Live without constantly feeling terrified and paranoid?” Justine smiled and sighed.

        “Well, we are paranoid sometimes,” She confessed. “But her dad is very supportive. Which is good, since mine kicked me out when I cut off my hair at eighteen.” She smiled. “We live with Henry, who’s also gay, and Victor who seems to play both sides. Having a loving family seems to be the key, whether it’s your original family or not.”

        “I don’t know what my family would think,” Jascha said quietly. “I...never had girlfriends, or boyfriends, or even many crushes. I never thought about it much until Ernest.”

        “Do you think you’ll tell them?”

        “I...want to tell my mom, I think,” Jascha couldn’t remember much of her, other than that she fretted over him constantly and was always his primary emotional support. “My dad…I might let my mom decide that one.” He actually had no evidence that his parents were alive and okay. He felt a fresh wave of panic wash over him.

        “You don’t have to,” Justine said kindly. “I don’t think Ernest will mind. It’s certainly not a conversation to worry about now.”

        Right. Now was still now. Ernest was away from him; out of his sight and on the same campus as the monster who assaulted him and the bastards who let it happen. He clenched his jaw, fighting back his anger. He turned to Justine. “How do I help him?”  
“Well, my psych degree is in child development,” Justine said with a sigh, “But I’ve had friends who’ve been assaulted. And it’s come up in some classes.” Jascha leaned forward, listening attentively. Seeing this, Justine continued. “Let him decide when he talks about it. If he talks about it. He’s gonna have a lot of complicated feelings for a while, and some days might feel normal while others feel impossible. Let him tell you how to touch him, and don’t be upset if he doesn’t want to be touched.” She paused, looking at him thoughtfully. “Do you two...have a sexual relationship?”

        Jascha blushed, but nodded. No point in lying or keeping secrets. “Nothing too intense yet, but yes. We’ve, uh, done some things.” If Justine was shocked, her face betrayed nothing.

        “Sex will probably be difficult for a time, then,” she said gently. “All of what I said varies between individuals, so don’t be surprised if some of it doesn’t apply or if other stuff comes up.”

        “What about the dreams?” Jascha asked seriously. “He had bad dreams last night.”

        Justine smiled sadly. “Time. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but it’ll take time.”

        She was right. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. But it was what he expected. “What can I do to help him through those?” He asked.

        Justine sighed. “Dreams are hard. Hold him if he wants to be held, let him talk to you about them if he wants to talk. If he panics, stay calm and help him down.” Jascha nodded.

        “He goes home for break soon,” Jascha said quietly. “Will he be okay?”

        “I don’t know,” Justine said sadly. “Are you planning to go with him?”  
“He asked me to,” Jascha said shyly. “But I didn’t say yes or no. I...don’t know his family, except Victor, and I don’t like Victor. That was before, though.”

        “Maybe check in with him again,” Justine suggested. “He may prefer to go back alone now, since it may cause him stress to bring back a partner. But he could also need you more, in which case it would be best for him to have you nearby.”  
“I’d go, if he asked,” Jascha said quickly. “I...can’t really stand not being near him.”

        Justine smiled sympathetically. “That makes sense. You two have been through a lot.”

        “I think I might try to shower. And rest. Before he gets back.” Jascha said with a sigh. He felt awful. The dried blood on his jeans chafed his skin, and he’d been wearing the same shirt for more than a day. “Where did you put the bags?”

        “Upstairs in Victor’s room,” Justine stood and took his empty coffee cup back to the kitchen. “You should consider telling him, by the way.” She called over her shoulder.

        “Tell who what?” Jascha asked as he walked to the stairs.

        “Ernest,” he could hear the smile in her voice. “That you love him.”

        Jascha had no answer for her, so he just stared at her awkwardly before heading back up the stairs. He didn’t really feel any sort of shame or embarrassment that she’d picked up on it. He’d been working so hard to make sure that Ernest might feel it over the pain he was in that it would have been more concerning if she hadn’t noticed. It was more the timescale that scared him. Only a little more than a month. And he’d never been with anyone before. He had no guarantee that Ernest felt the same way. Anyone would require support and comfort after what he’d seen and been through. His choosing Jascha’s support didn’t necessarily mean that he was in love with him. Jascha hadn’t dated in college, but he knew from other people that sex certainly did not equate to love either. He didn’t know how people figured this out in movies or real life. He’d kind of just assumed that he’d wake up one day as an adult and know.

        He showered, and chose to use the flowery body wash that was there because he felt the most certain it wasn’t Victor’s. Same with the shampoo. And conditioner. His hair was long, and he refused to let it look barbaric or frizzy. If that meant using _TresEmme Ultra-Moisture_ conditioner, then that’s what he would do. He knew Ernest liked that his hair was soft, and if he was being honest, so did he. He was far beyond caring about how girly he smelled or looked like at this point, especially if they weren’t in a frat. Once clean, he actually blow-dried his hair, since he hated sleeping on it wet. He dug out clean clothes from his small bag of belongings and returned to bed, finally attaining his dream of dreamless sleep.

        He awoke the second he heard a door close downstairs. It was noon. He made it downstairs within seconds, and had to stop himself from tackling Ernest the moment he saw him. He instead waited patiently for Ernest to put his bag down, take off his shoes, and look up at him. He melted a little when Ernest saw him and smiled.

        “Dude, the language building is so far from here,” Lizzie complained as she came in after Ernest. “Hey, Jascha. Did Justine go to work?”

        “Uh, maybe. I was asleep.” Jascha said, glancing briefly at Lizzie before he returned to looking at Ernest. “How was class?”

        Ernest walked over to him and leaned his head against his shoulder; an invitation for Jascha to kiss his forehead, which he gladly took. When Ernest pulled away, Jascha saw that up close he seemed more haggard than before. Exhausted in a way he’d never seen Ernest be, even after the panic attack with Henry. “It was okay. It was Russian, and then human phys review.”

        “Do you want to rest?” Jascha asked with gentle concern.

        Ernest nodded. “Can we watch TV? Sometimes it helps me sleep.”

        “Of course,” Jascha said as he stroked Ernest’s hair. Ernest hugged him tightly and pressed his face against his neck.

        “You smell like Lizzie,” He said quietly.

        “I...may have used her shampoo.” Jascha said, looking apologetically towards Lizzie. He was relieved to see she was buried in her phone.

        He and Ernest settled into one another much like they had last night. Ernest seemed to like being able to lay across him, and Jascha liked it too so long as he wasn’t sleeping and dreaming of losing his legs. Ernest flicked through the channels until he found _Scrubs_ , which Jascha somehow remembered watching at some point. Presumably before the accident.

        “You don’t like gore,” Jascha said affectionately, running his fingers through Ernest’s hair. “Is this actually what you want to watch?”

        “It’s not gore if it’s medicine,” Ernest said into the blanket. “I like this show.”

        “If you say so,” Jascha said gently. He was completely indifferent to the show. He felt that, after his experience in the lab, the medicine was trivial and obsolete. Somehow Victor, in all his psychopathic glory, had cheated Jascha out of death. What was the point of hospital drama if that sort of feat was possible?

        “Jascha?” Ernest asked sleepily, pulling him from his daydream. The episode had ended, and they were onto a new one about, of all things, a car accident. A normal one, though.

        “Yes?” Jascha felt Ernest give his hand a squeeze.

        “I missed you,” Ernest said quietly. “Three hours was...longer than I thought.”

        Jascha held him a little tighter and kissed the top of his head. “I missed you, too.”

        “Come with me tomorrow?” Ernest asked, voice heavy with exhaustion.

        “Won’t it be worse, like you said?” Jascha said gently. Ernest shook his head.

        “I don’t care anymore,” he said, voice resigned. “Everyone’s gonna know anyway. At least if you come I get to see you.” Ernest laughed weakly. “We can make out between classes in the bathroom or something, just like in high school.”

        “I didn’t kiss people in high school,” Jascha said with a smile, earning a truer laugh.

        “Honestly? Me neither,” Ernest kissed his hand. “...We really, really shouldn’t kiss in the bathroom. That’s actually an awful idea.”

        “No,” Jascha said with a sigh. “Probably not.”

        “But you’ll come anyway? Even if we can’t kiss?” Ernest sounded more like himself; sweet and playful and strong.

        “I’ll go anywhere you want me to,” Jascha said, contorting slightly so he could kiss Ernest on the cheek. He felt Ernest smile, so he kissed him again.

        “Even to my house for break?” Ernest asked almost sheepishly.

        “Yes,” Jascha said softly. There was nothing he’d deny Ernest. Not while he was hurt. “I’ll stay with you as long as you want me to.”

        “That might be a while,” Ernest whispered. “Like, a long while.”

        Jascha nuzzled his hair. “I hope it’s a long time,” he said sweetly. A wave of peace washed over him as he felt Ernest relax and cuddle closer into him. Sure they were watching a show about car accidents, and Jascha kind of hated it. But Ernest was comfortable, and hopefully about to fall asleep. And he’d said he wanted Jascha to stay with him for a long time. Jascha kissed the top of his head, blissfully content to be able to feel his warmth, smell his shampoo, and, even if only for a little while, keep him completely safe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Идиот: idiot


	28. Coping Mechanisms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry considers crime. Victor is validated. Jascha goes shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! As always, thanks for reading! If you're curious about us, feel free to follow us on Tumblr (KnightVanguard, moth-femme, and time-and-space-in-your-face). Comments and kudos always loved and appreciated!
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of violence, references to sexual assault, and trauma.

        Somehow, several days passed in the blink of an eye. Maybe it was because Victor was gone doing his therapy stuff and Henry didn’t have his thesis work, so there wasn’t much for him to do other than watch movies and bother William, who had been grounded for three days.  It would have been fine if he didn’t itch with boredom. Of the 10,398 books in the Frankenstein house, he was convinced that he had read every single one that seemed even remotely interesting. Unfortunately, Ulpian’s treatise on law did not qualify as interesting in the least and that was what was sitting in front of him.

        Blah blah, Roman soldiers could do whatever they wanted in their wills, blah. Boring. He tossed the book off the edge of the bed and then picked it up again because it was Alphonse’s and he felt guilty. He really needed to go back to the apartment and grab his flash drive and some of his books. Victor’s desktop was right there and there was nothing he could do about it. He shifted his body so the ice fell more across his bruised side. He felt like a salmon just waiting to be eaten.

        “Kill me,” Victor burst through the door and threw himself on the bed next to Henry and curled into a ball.

        “That bad?” Henry asked and reached for Victor’s shoulder. He flinched away and Henry pulled back his hand.

        “I’m tired,” Victor said, pulling a pillow into his arms. “Are you still hurt?”

        “Yup. Not much I can do about it but wait,” he shrugged. Victor groaned and closed his eyes.

        “I should kill him,” he said. “It would end both of our miseries.” Henry desperately wanted to reach out and push Victor’s hair from his forehead and kiss the creases from his brow, but he held his distance.

“I hardly think that would be a good idea. You shouldn’t hurt anyone on my behalf,” Henry took off the ice pack and put it on the nightstand. “Plus, what would I do without you?”

“Prosper,” Victor muttered. There wasn’t much Henry could say to that, but his heart ached seeing Victor so miserable.

“I’m thinking of going to the apartment later to grab some stuff so I can work on my thesis and don’t fall too far behind. Do you need anything?”

        “A purpose in life, perhaps.”

        “To challenge yourself and follow your passions to make the world better. Do you need anything I can physically obtain?” Henry asked and Victor smiled. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

        “Chocolate?” Victor asked.

        “Of course,” Henry smiled. “Anything,”

        He didn’t feel particularly inclined to move at the moment. He was doing some mental calculus in his head. To ask Alphonse to drive him or to just take his bike. On the one hand, he could use the time to talk and just getting a ride was a lot less effort. On the other, it would be the first time he had seen Elizabeth in basically forever and they had a lot of talking they needed to do. In the end, he decided he’d probably bike. It was a nice day out and he could use the sunlight so he looked a little less like a vampire. But he could do that later.

        “Do you want to talk about what happened?” Henry asked.

        “Nope,” Victor said, pressing his face harder against the pillow.

        “Not even a little bit?” He propped himself up on his elbow.

        “I have been doing so much talking about my feelings. I don’t have any left.” Victor’s voice was muffled by the fabric.

        “Words?” Henry asked.

        “Feelings.”

        Henry desperately wanted to touch touch him and rub the tension out of his shoulders and back. He could practically feel the pull of his muscles under his skin. That’s how Victor used to help him when he wasn’t able to feel emotions.

        “Is there anything I can do to help?” Henry asked.

        “Can you read to me?”

        “Of course. Is there anything you had in mine?”

        “Poetry. Anything. I just want your voice.” It had been a long time since Henry had heard Victor’s voice sound so small and weak.

        There wasn’t much around in the way of poetry, but he supposed Eliot could be fine. Henry wasn’t really a huge fan, but it was very up Victor’s alley, much more than Whitman in any case.  The Hollow Men . It was fitting:

_  I _

_     We are the hollow men _

_     We are the stuffed men _

_     Leaning together _

_     Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! _

_     Our dried voices, when _

_     We whisper together _

_     Are quiet and meaningless _

_     As wind in dry grass _

_     Or rats' feet over broken glass _

_     In our dry cellar _

__

_     Shape without form, shade without colour, _

_     Paralyzed force, gesture without motion; _

__

_     Those who have crossed _

_     With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom _

_     Remember us-if at all-not as lost _

_     Violent souls, but only _

_     As the hollow men _

_     The stuffed men. _

 

        It was difficult to feel real when Henry read Eliot. His voice stuck to the sides of his throat and threatened to choke him from the inside out. It made his skin feel like dried leaves that would crumble away at the slightest touch. Henry was never one for existentialism, but this poem drove it into him.

 

_          II _

_         Eyes I dare not meet in dreams _

_         In death's dream kingdom _

_         These do not appear: _

_         There, the eyes are _

_         Sunlight on a broken column _

_         There, is a tree swinging _

_         And voices are _

_         In the wind's singing _

_         More distant and more solemn _

_         Than a fading star. _

__

_         Let me be no nearer _

_         In death's dream kingdom _

_         Let me also wear _

_         Such deliberate disguises _

_         Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves _

_         In a field _

_         Behaving as the wind behaves _

_         No nearer- _

__

_          Not that final meeting _

_          In the twilight kingdom _

        It struck him how often Eliot was right. Eyes never go away. Of course, Henry really didn’t have any right to feel like that. Combat was something that was different; something that he had never seen. He couldn’t in good conscience compare himself to that, but he did anyway. Everything was a fight and every fight left its mark upon his skin. Victor’s breathing seemed to even out and his muscles relaxed a little. Was he asleep? It was difficult to tell when he was turned away. He was quiet for a moment with no cry of protest.

        He checked the clock. 4:56. Just like he thought. Now was a good time as ever to swing by the apartment. At least then he could get something productive done instead of being trapped in the house all day long.

        The sun felt nice on his skin. Even though the air was freezing and the wind bit into his nose and ears, he could still feel the energy of the sun sinking into his muscles. He raced past familiar mailboxes and trees. It was a wonder it hadn’t snowed yet. It must happen soon, he thought. Christmas was rapidly approaching, after all, and there was no such thing as a green Christmas in Chicago. He relaxed and allowed himself to focus on the sound of the air rushing around his ears. The white noise sparkled like electricity and filled Henry with joy.

        He was allowed to return. He could go home and return to his work. Nearly two weeks without Whitman was torture, pure and simple. It was inhumane to deprive a poet of his favorite poetry. Speaking of which, he should probably call his advisor again, but he desperately didn’t want her to worry. He knew Adelaide would practically beg him to take leave, but he couldn’t and didn’t want to. There were so few joys in this life of his and Whitman was the second greatest. Maybe the third if he was counting Ernest.

        The gray house surprised him from out of the corner. Had he really been biking for that long? It didn’t feel like it. There weren't any cars in the driveway. Perfect. He could slip in and out as fast as possible and then return to Victor. He could deal with telling Elizabeth later anyway. He leaned his bike against the garage and fumbled through his pockets for his keys. Of course they weren't there. They were in his bag and his father had his bag. Great. Well, he decided to ring the doorbell anyway in case someone was home.

        Elizabeth threw herself at Henry the moment she saw him. “I’ve been so worried about you.” she said. “Are you okay? There was the crash and then you disappeared and then Victor lost it.” She took a deep breath. Had she been crying? “But now you’re back.”

        “I’m surviving,” Henry hadn’t realized how much he missed her. He sank into her hug even though it still hurt. He pulled away and held her shoulders “Are you okay?”

        “I…” she balled the hem of her shirt in her fists. “I have something I need to talk to you about.”

        “So do I,” Henry said as he followed her inside. He sat on the couch and noted the abysmal state of the cushions.

        “One to ten?” Elizabeth asked, just like old times, except usually that scale reference to something stupid Victor had done. Maybe she still thinks that’s what's up. He wished it was. The thought of actually having to tell her made him feel sick. How dare he inflict his life on the people he loves.

        “Umm...8.5 I think,” Henry said. Maybe more, maybe less. It was hard to tell when it was him. “You?”

        “10.”

        “10?” They had only gone that far once before.

        “Should I get something to drink before we do this?” She asked. “We have basically anything you could ask for.”

        “Peach tea would be nice,” Henry said. It was one of the few luxuries the Frankenstein house lacked.

        “I would have thought something with a little more alcohol if it's going to be this bad,” Elizabeth said.

        “I don’t really think I’m supposed to drink.” In truth, Henry hadn’t thought about alcohol once since shit hit the fan. It would probably be nice to go out with Elizabeth and Justine to catch up.

        Elizabeth returned with two mugs of tea. The warmth pulsed through Henry’s hands and began to thaw out his ears and nose.

        “Do you want to go first?” she asked.

        “Not particularly. You?” Henry finally took in the entire effect of Elizabeth’s face. Her bloodshot eyes and tearstained face seemed entirely out of character.

        “No,” She sighed and ran hand through her hair. It had probably been about three days since she really washed it. All Frankensteins were the same. “Let’s do the thing.” Henry knew exactly what she meant.

        “One, two three,” They said together.

        “My father kidnapped me and broke my ribs.”

        “Ernest was sexually assaulted at the frat.”

        Silence hung in the air like bloody fog as they made eye contact. The moment stretched on for an eternity. This was worse; much, much worse than Henry was expecting. He breathed in and air didn’t fill his lungs. It felt like he was inhaling chalk. He couldn’t even move. It felt like his body was cast in glass.

Everything shattered when Elizabeth shrieked and buried her face in Henry’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and tried to be as comforting as he could, but he was shaking. He could feel her nails digging into his back, but he didn’t care.

        “I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them both,” she screamed. “I’ll castrate them and shove their pathetic dicks down their fucking throats.” Her hot tears soaked through Henry’s shirt. His eyes burned and he wanted to scream. Why Ernest? How could anyone do that to Ernest?

        “I know. I know. I’m fine,” Henry whispered. “Where’s Ernest? Is he safe?”

        “No it’s not fine,” Elizabeth’s voice broke and was lost in Henry’s chest. “None of this is fucking fine.  I’ll make sure those pigs rot in hell. I’ll make sure--” her rage turned to heavy sobbing.

        “Where’s Ernest?” Henry tried to be like Alphonse and disguise the fear in his voice as calm authority, but it didn’t work.

        “He’s been living here for a couple days. I think he and Jascha went out shopping,” she was barely comprehensible, but Henry got the gist. He relaxed the slightest bit. Ernest was safe. Nothing could happen to him if he stayed with Justine and Elizabeth.

        “What happened?” Henry asked. He let Elizabeth rest her head on his shoulders as he rubbed comforting circles into her back. He felt the muscle give away for perhaps the first time in a week.

        “I don’t really know.” she said. “Ernest came home and said that some bitch...Mason put his hands--”

        “You don’t have to finish that sentence,” Henry said.

        “I think Jascha beat the shit out of him. He was covered in blood and he said the blood wasn’t his.”

        Henry felt a wave of vindication wash over him. Good. He deserved to be beat to hell. Even though he knew it was a lesser function of being human, the revenge was sweet as cherries in his mouth. He longed to do the same. He relished the day dream of his knee colliding with Mason’s solar plexus, leaving him a spasming wretch on the ground. He didn’t consider himself a violent person, but there were some people who were worth it.

        “What do we do?” Henry asked into Elizabeth’s hair. Even as he tried to ground himself back to reality, the daydream didn’t stop. A euphoric glow enveloped him as he imagined himself thrusting a knife between Mason’s third and fourth rib, watching the life fall from his eyes and his blood drained into Henry’s hand. The sticky fluid ran black as night and smelled like iron and rot.

        “I want revenge,” Elizabeth growled. “No one will hurt my baby brother ever again.” Her eyes were alight with fire and ichor. “I will cut off his hands and tear out his tongue. I’ll carve his crimes into his fucking chest. There will be nothing left but a tattered corpse when I’m done with him. He will suffer.” Her voice rose steadily until she was screaming again. Divine energy and light coiled around her like a feathered serpent. Something inside Henry snapped. They were doing this.

        “How do you cleanse a corpse?” he asked, knowing full well the answer.

        “With fire.” Elizabeth said.

        “With fire.”

 

* * *

 

         Though he could hardly ever make his movements as sluggish, that was the only word he could call to mind to describe his current state. As Victor dragged himself from his bed with supreme difficulty, he felt a small spark of something like triumph which was quickly consumed by aching nothing. He felt completely apathetic to existence as a concept. What he wouldn’t give to be air. Or nitrogen. Maybe helium. Maybe just dead. But probably not that either.

        “Hey,” Victor glanced to William, who sat on the couch, “where’s Henry? Did he leave already?”

        “Yeah, he went out about two hours ago.” William said. He cast a nervous glance to the right and for the first time Victor noticed the girl seated beside him. He stared at her. She blinked back.

        “Oh. Hi.” Victor said tonelessly.

        “Uh, hello?” The girl replied. She squirmed in her seat and sent a pleading glance to William, who looked back and forth between them for a moment as if deliberating.

        “Isabella this is, uh, Victor. He’s my older brother.”

        Victor raised a hand.

        “It’s nice to meet you.” Isabella said.

        “Pleasure’s all mine.”

        Victor hovered for another moment, appraising the girl with her butterfly hair clips holding back a puff of curly black hair and a pink t-shirt with some quote from Shakespeare. He slowly turned his gaze back to William, sitting just a tad too close to the other. Under Victor’s sharp gaze, the boy’s face began to grow slightly red.

        “Ah,” Victor broke the silence suddenly, making both kids jump, “okay. I see.”

        “Victor,” William’s voice pitched up about three degrees, “shouldn’t you go help Dad with dinner or something?” With his hand now on Isabella’s knee and his face a bright shade of tomato, William looked the splitting image of Ernest after he’d brought home that friend from soccer for the first time. Eerie. Victor raised his hands in surrender and backed out of the room.

        As he walked away, he heard William apologizing to Isabella. “Sorry, he can get...weird sometimes. Just ignore it and he’ll be back to normal by dinner.”

        “He looked pretty pale. Is he okay?”

        “He always looks like that. He’s like a vampire.”

        Victor rounded into the kitchen and the kids’ voices drowned in the thick drywall. His father stood at the counter, effortlessly cutting carrots for whatever soup, salad, baked thing he was making that night. Victor crept up beside him and snagged one of the peppers from the edge of the board.

        “Put it back.” His dad said. “You’ll ruin your appetite.”

        Victor put it back and wandered over to the fridge.

        “Not there either.” His father said without looking up from his cutting.

        Victor closed the fridge. Wandered over to the pantry.

        “Victor.” Firmer this time.

        He closed the pantry door and moved to lean against the counter. His father paused in his work. Before his eyes, the older man seemed to soften and yield. He pushed the cutting board forward towards Victor. “You can have the tomatoes, but don’t touch the peppers.”

        Victor plucked some of the fruit/vegetable up. “Have you met the girl?” He asked as he moved to sit on the counter. His father gave him a slightly disapproving look, but relented when Victor started swinging his legs like a child.

        “Isabella?” He said as he scrapped the carrots into a pot. “Yes, she seems quite lovely. William rarely has over friends. None of you children seem or ever seemed extremely fond of bringing people around.” He paused. “With the exception of Henry and Justine. But they were both more than friends, I suppose.”

        “Hm.” Victor pitched in. He grabbed another tomato slice despite not being particularly hungry. Food from dinner prep was forbidden fruit as far he was concerned and he needed to take full advantage of his father’s leniency.

        His dad folded the knife down against counter and drew his full attention to Victor, who squirmed under the scrutiny. It was not an unkind look, however, nor was it especially intense. Rather it was hesitant, but sympathetic. “You’re in a very talkative mood tonight, I see.”  

        Victor smiled palely. “It’s a first.”

        “Not so much as you might think.” His dad answered. He picked up the knife again and flipped it towards Victor. “Would you care to help me with dinner?”

        Victor frowned at the offered object. “I’ve been banned from knives since I was nine, Dad.”

        “I’ll grant you a...temporary reprieve.” His dad cocked a smile. “Besides, I know you’ve been ignoring that rule for years.”

        Of course he did. His father knew everything. Well, almost everything. Victor took the knife and, drawing the board farther towards himself, set to work on the potatoes while his dad went to stir the sauce.

        “Will Henry be joining us tonight?” He asked “I thought I heard him head out.”

        “No. He went to the apartment.”

        “Your apartment?” Victor nodded. “In that case we won’t see him till tomorrow morning, I suspect. He and Elizabeth will no doubt be gossiping all night.”

        “Hm.” Victor repeated. “Yeah.” A small prick of worry reignited in his chest as he thought about the fact that he was doomed to be separated from Henry for another few hours at least and upwards of twelve at most. Suddenly, he felt like shivering.

        “So.” His father spoke lighter now as if he were approaching a spooked deer. “What have you been up to in the program?”

        In the psych ward, Victor filled in. His dad did have a way of making everything seem kinder than it really was. Effects of being a lawyer.

        “It’s fine.” Victor flicked aside the first set of chopped spud. “We were talking about OCD stuff today.”

        “Anything interesting?”

        “Just ways to avoid getting fixed on things. Controlling panic responses. The works.” Victor eyed his father. “Konig also started talking about updating my meds so that was fun.”

        “The Wellbutrin or the dexedrine?”

        “The dexedrine.”

        “Very nice.”

        “Yup.”

        The oven started to yell, causing Victor to jump. He set the knife down as his dad switched the timer off.

        “Anything else?”

        Victor scrambled to gather his scattering thoughts into a more organized pile. “Uh. There’s a woman. She was, um, asking about my name. Wanted to know whether I was named after Victor Hugo.”

        His father snorted indignantly and Victor felt a rush of accomplishment, knowing he’d hit one of his rant buttons. “Well you can tell her that I wouldn’t even name a dog after that mess of a writer. His descriptions are pointless, his work is sluggish, and in all my years, I have never been so bored by a book as  _ Les Miserables _ , that pay-by-the-word excuse for fine literature. No, you, Victor were not named after such a wretch of a man as  Hugo .” He spit the name like it was salt in his mouth.

        Victor shook his head. “Don’t let Henry hear you bad mouth Hugo like that.  _Les Mis_   is one of his favorites.”

        His dad threw him a mournful look. “I’m aware. Alas, in that regard, I have failed in raising him.”

        Victor picked the knife back up like it was a lit cigarette and rocked it gently against the cutting board. “Mom always said I was named after Elizabeth’s dad.” He said thoughtfully. “Any truth in that?”

        His father, rather conveniently, chose that moment to leave the room to set the table. They prepared the rest of the meal in relative silence from there, comfortable because it emerged not from a lack of things to say, but an awareness of Victor’s current need for quiet. Though he was not a cook by any means or stretch of the imagination, the simple tasks his dad gave him offered something for him to do without exerting too much effort or thought, which he appreciated. They worked in an even sync.

        Just as the last plate was set and William and Isabella were called to the table, however, his dad broke the still with a hand on his shoulder.

        “I’m proud of you by the way.”

        Victor started, nearly dropping the cooked carrots as he stared at his father in confusion.

        His dad’s voice was unusually gentle as he stared right back. “For agreeing to do this program. And for going through with it.”

        “It’s only been a few days.” Victor said, suddenly uncomfortable with his position trapped in the kitchen. He took a step towards the doorway as his feet urged him to join William and Isabella in the dining room or, better yet, flee back to the dark sanctuary of his bedroom.

        “Yes,” his dad said, “but you’ve really been putting your best foot forward with this plan. Getting up and ready on time. Not fighting me on any of it. I haven’t even heard of you threatening any of the other patients yet and that’s a  big  improvement over last time.”

        Victor didn’t have the heart to tell his father that the reason he hadn’t heard of him threatening the other patients was that he had made sure to tell them in excruciating detail what he’d do if they blabbed.

        Still, his father was waiting for a response so, chasing the stiffening anxiety from his limbs, Victor chanced a small smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

        His father ruffled his hair affectionately as he moved to take plates into the dining room. Victor watched him go unsurely. It...Something had changed. It didn’t seem quite a permanent thing, not yet, but the air between them had definitely shifted, melded, melted. It didn’t feel as stony as it had the last week nor did it feel rigid and patched in that way Victor was so much more accustomed to. It felt like…

        He had no idea.

        But it was a nice change regardless.

        Victor scooped up the gravy boat beside his elbow only to be stopped as his phone began to softly play  Barbie Girl . He dug it out, expecting it to be Henry telling him he’d be staying over at the apartment. Instead it was a text from Elizabeth.

        _Henry’s here for the night Justine and I are kidnapping him for a girls night. Just as a head’s up_

        Huh. Well, that was actually great. It meant that Victor definitely wasn't getting Henry back anytime soon, but the other man deserved some fun in his life.

         _Sounds good._ Victor typed back.  _ Make sure he ices his ribs _

_         Coolio _

        A pause.

        _Hey, what temp does human skin melt at again?_

        Victor blinked at the phone.

_         Uh 162. What kind of girl’s night are you planning Liz? _

         _Just settling a debate. Night Vic. Love you_

        The texting stopped, leaving Victor to stare at his phone with unease. Elizabeth texting him about fire. That was never a good sign.

 

* * *

 

        Ernest had a bad night. Most of the nights had been bad. But last night, Friday night, was the worst. Mostly because, since he’d basically disappeared following the incident, all of his friends had started wondering where he was. And the soccer team was apparently trying to do something to celebrate finals, so obviously they called him. Against all of Jascha’s protests, Ernest had gone, and apparently everything was completely fine up until the very end when Carson asked him about Mason. Ernest held it together until he was home, where he then relived the panic of Monday, tears and nausea and all. He eventually settled down enough to sleep, but it was fraught with nightmares and fear. Even with that, Jascha must have fallen asleep at some point, since he woke in a panic when reached for Ernest and found his spot empty.

        “Ernest?” Jascha asked, sitting up. Noon. Bad, but not unreasonable for college age boys. Jascha looked around the room, and found no one but himself. He got up to check the bathroom. “Ernest, are you in there?”

        “Jascha?” Ernest’s voice was faint over the shower.

        “It’s me,” Jascha said, loud enough that Ernest could hear him.

        “You can come in,” Ernest said. Jascha opened the door and slipped inside quickly. He smiled when he saw Ernest peek out from behind the shower curtain.

        “You’re showering on your own,” Jascha said sweetly. “Are you doing better?”

        “I wanted to try it,” Ernest said shyly. “I’m better than last night. Kiss?”

        Jascha took a step forward and kissed Ernest gently on the lips. They still didn’t really kiss in front of people as a force of habit, even if their housemates were lesbians.

        “Do you want me to wait for you outside?” Jascha asked as he pulled away.

        “Not really,” Ernest said, returning to his shower. Jascha brushed his teeth, washed his face, and combed his hair. “Do you want to, like, go out today?”

        “Out?” Jascha asked, comb in hand. Ernest stopped the shower and stepped out. Jascha worried about his health now, especially when he could see him undressed. Where he had been smooth and strong before, Ernest’s body was looking sharp and wiry. He dried off and wrapped himself around Jascha, causing his blood to rush to all the wrong places if he were to think clearly.

        “Yeah,” Ernest said sleepily. “I kinda want to act like everything is normal.”

        “What do you want to do?” Jascha managed to ask as Ernest ran his fingers through his freshly combed hair. He was quiet for a minute.

        “You’re gonna laugh at me,” Ernest said with a blush.

        “No I won’t. Promise.” Jascha said, a hesitant smile forming at the edges of his mouth.

        “Okay, so like,” Ernest took a deep breath; a good one. “Listen, you can’t tell anyone  about this. Ever.” Ernest’s tone was serious, but not grave or upset.

        “Who would I even tell?” Jascha tried to maintain eye contact, which was hard when Ernest was naked. He was sad and thankful when Ernest wrapped a towel around his waist.

        “I like shopping. For clothes.” Ernest said quickly.

        “Shopping?” Jascha laughed, even though he tried not to.        

        “Like, not necessarily for myself, since I just wear, like, dude clothes. But for other  people.” Ernest’s voice was defensive. “My mom and dad were super obsessed with our clothes when we were kids. I guess it rubbed off on me. We don’t have to go, if you don’t want to.”

        “No, I’m down. Where would we go? A mall?” Jascha felt himself relax a bit, and his senses returned to him slowly.

        Ernest was quiet and thoughtful for a moment as he caught his appearance in the mirror. He ran his hands from his collar bone down to his hips, frowning at the sharpness of his own bones. He touched the deep, bruise-like circles under his eyes lightly, brow furrowing. “I look like Victor,” he said bitterly.

        Jascha looked at him more closely, and was horrified to see that yes, he did look very much like his brother. Especially with his hair damp. “You still have the freckles. He doesn’t.”

        “Whatever. At least my hair is wet rather than greasy.” His tone was flat and cold. “Anyway, no. Not a mall. The other guys go to the mall sometimes with their girlfriends.”

        “Okay. Are there other places?” Jascha asked.

        “The shopping district. In downtown. It’s, uh, too ‘girly’ for any of the other guys to go there willingly. It’s where the, like, designer stores are.” Ernest finished drying his hair and scrunched it up with his hands, reviving the curls. “We’ll be safe there.”

        “Sounds good. I, uh, don’t have any money, though,” Jascha said shyly.

        “Oh, I wasn’t going to make you pay.” Ernest poked at his eyes again, as if touching them would make the circles go away. “It’ll be my treat, via my clothing allowance.”

        “Ernest,” Jascha stared at him. “What the hell is a clothing allowance?”

        Ernest turned a bit pink and looked at him. “Okay, so, my dad, like, gives me and my siblings credit cards attached to his account, right? For emergencies, like our hotel room. Also for nice clothes. My mom was super into fashion, and my dad...Well, when she...passed away. He added nice clothes to the list of ‘emergencies’ that we were allowed to use the card for.”

        “I didn’t know your mom wasn’t around,” Jascha said softly. “I- I’m sorry.”

        “It’s okay. It was years ago.” Ernest rubbed the back of his head. “Anyway, I was thinking, like, you only wear three different outfits. Ever. And it might be sort of fun to, like, get you some new stuff. Other than sweatpants. Especially for break at my house.”

        “I like my sweatpants,” Jascha said defensively.

        “I like your sweatpants, too. Because they’re mine.” Ernest smiled a real smile; the kind Jascha had trouble saying no to. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. I promise.”

        “Okay,” Jascha smiled because Ernest was smiling. “Let me shower and change clothes before we go.”

        “Can I…?” Ernest gestured to the countertop where Jascha was sitting.

        “You can stay in here if you want.” Jascha jumped down from the counter so Ernest could sit. He felt warmth fill his chest as Ernest relaxed. It was amazing how strongly Ernest’s mood affected his own. He was comforted to see Ernest look at him a bit hungrily as he undressed. It indicated that maybe, just maybe, things were returning back to normal.  

        Ernest brushed his teeth while Jascha showered. After twenty minutes, they were ready to go. Jascha didn’t exactly have nice clothes for going out, but he did wear his jeans (now clean by some miracle, thanks to Lizzie) instead of sweatpants. Ernest wore what he referred to as his ‘people clothes’ rather than his sportswear, which consisted of a navy V-neck sweater and fitted black jeans.

        Ernest drove them back into the city, much to Jascha’s relief. They had to circle around several blocks before Ernest found a spot he could parallel park in, and Jascha marveled at his ability to do so without panicking. He vaguely remembered that he’d failed a driving test or three for his bad parking skills.

        Ernest led him through the heart of Chicago, which was bright and glittering in the winter noonday sun. They rounded a block, and found themselves on a huge boulevard with expensive boutiques and shops lining each side, all catered towards the upper class. There were tailors, custom furniture shops, interior design and art galleries; but most of all there were the storefronts for the big brands like Gucci, Versace, Giorgio Armani, and Prada, to name a few. Jascha felt entirely lost and out of place, but Ernest’s eyes were wide with excitement, so he figured this couldn’t be an awful place. It felt like years since he’d seen Ernest excited about something. It did help, however, that Lizzie had loaned him concealer for his eyes. The make up fixed a lot.

        “What brands do you like?” Ernest shouted to him over the noise of the street.

        “I don’t know,” Jascha said, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

        “I usually buy my nice stuff at the Ralph Lauren store, or Lacoste.” Ernest looked him over. “Do you, like, go for preppy clothes, or edgier stuff?”

        “Uh, maybe?” Jascha shrugged. “I just need it to cover all my scars.”

        Ernest nodded. “Let’s try Guess. Maybe Gucci, if you want to try on some weird stuff. We can always go to Nordstrom. They usually have discounts.”

        Jascha nodded, even though he understood none of what he said. Before he knew it, Ernest was headed into one of the stores. He had to hurry to keep up. Once he was inside he stayed as close as he could to Ernest without looking too suspicious.

        “This is Gucci. They’re, like, kinda edgy and monochrome. Easy place to start.” Ernest gestured towards the store. “What do you like?”

        Jascha gravitated towards the darker colors. Everything in the store was more or less in greyscale. Apparently velour was in this year, and there were lots of oversized jackets covered with velvet in various shades of grey. Jascha picked up a black leather bomber-type jacket.

        “That one’s pretty cool,” Ernest nodded in approval. “Yeah, they don’t have, like, a lot of normal clothes. More jackets and suits and stuff. Try that one on,” Ernest shoved Jascha towards a mirror. Jascha glanced at himself briefly before returning to Ernest’s side. Jascha blushed as he saw the store manager looking at him. He tried on the jacket. It fit him much better than the hand-me-down coat Henry gave him. He turned to each side; looked over his shoulders to see the back. He liked it a lot. He wore it as he returned to Ernest, desperate to be near him again even though they were apart for only seconds. They couldn’t hold hands or hug in public, but he made sure that they were close enough that their hands brushed.

        “Oh, nice!” Ernest turned to him, smiling. Jascha smiled back until he saw that Ernest had all the components of a suit in his hands. It sparked an old memory of buying a suit with someone else; his mother, perhaps.

        “What’s that?” Jascha asked.

        “Suit. It’s, like, Victorian and shit, with dovetails. Fitted vest, high-collared shirt. Look, the lapels are velvet.” Ernest let Jascha run a hand over the suit jacket. “You should try it on. I think these are your sizes.” Jascha wanted very badly to kiss him. He looked healthy and content for the first time all week. It was completely intoxicating to be near him.

        They were guided into the fitting rooms by a sales attendant, who helped Jascha put on the suit despite his best efforts to do it himself. The salesperson even pinned the coat and pants to make them fit more exactly. When he walked out of the fitting room, Ernest’s face lit up and he grinned.

        “You look like a vampire.” Ernest laughed, eyes wandering up and down his body. When he saw Jascha blush, he smirked. “A sexy vampire. Come look,” he whispered as they walked over to a mirror. Jascha was startled not by the suit, but by the familiarity of himself in full formal wear. He recalled the Vitali, and vaguely remembered that he’d worn something like this.

        “I’d wear this to a concert,” Jascha said after a minute. “It’s...pretty nice.”

        Ernest adjusted the popped collar a little, leaving his hand on Jascha’s chest for a few seconds longer than he needed to, making them both blush. “Did you perform in a lot of concerts?”

        “Yeah,” Jascha said wistfully. “Like, a  lot . Not always as a soloist, though.”

        Ernest looked to the side, and whispered. “We’ve attracted an audience…”

        Jascha turned his head and saw that two of the salespeople and the manager were looking at them, as well as a few customers. The mirrors for the fitting rooms were more or less open to the other customers, even though the individual rooms were private. Jascha looked away and felt his face get hot. He was worried they knew what they were. Ernest dropped his hands away from his chest and Jascha shifted awkwardly.

        “I, uh, should take this off.” Jascha said quietly. One of the salespeople that were watching him came over and helped him. He caught a glimpse of the price tag and nearly had a heart attack. Once he was back in his sweater and jeans, he rejoined Ernest, who was by the register paying for the bomber coat. “What are you doing?” Jascha asked as he approached him.

        “Buying the jacket.” Ernest said matter of factly. “Bring me the suit.”

        “What?” Jascha asked again. He bent down and whispered. “It’s, like, $3,000.”

        Ernest turned to him and smiled wickedly, holding up two cards. “This one is mine. That one? It’s a store-specific credit card that our aunt gave Victor last Christmas.”

        “You can’t-” Jascha started.

        “He won’t know the difference. It’s not like he read the card to see how much was on it.” Ernest shrugged and signed the receipt in Victor’s name. “There was $7,000 on it, by the way. Go get the suit. And the red tie.”

        Jascha blinked at him. He opened his mouth to say something, but a sales clerk had heard them and brought the suit and tie.

        “Excuse me, sir,” A voice from behind him said. He turned and saw the manager. She wore a tailored dress suit with six inch stiletto heeled boots.

        “Yes?” Jascha felt his insides squirm. Ernest looked on curiously.

        “Have you ever been, or considered being, a model?” She spoke with practiced disinterest.

        “Um…Not really?” Jascha shifted on his feet.

        “We, with a few other brands, occasionally hold open auditions. You should consider trying your hand at it.” She placed an expensive looking business card in Jascha’s hand. “You have the build for it, and a unique face. It’s a rare combination.” She turned and left to go speak to one of her employees.

        Jascha stood, dumbfounded, until he felt Ernest move beside him. “Are- Did you actually buy the coat?” He asked. Ernest held the bag up like a trophy. “The suit, too?”

        “A new suit for you, courtesy of Victor’s stupidity.” Ernest smiled. “And a modeling job, apparently. Want to head to Ralph Lauren next? You could use some, like, more casual shirts and stuff.”

        Jascha looked between Ernest, the bag, and the business card. He felt so lost. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Okay.”  He followed Ernest back outside.

        “Great. I have, like, a backlog of reclaimed gift cards for that place.” Ernest smiled contentedly. “I feel like you’d look good in red. Maybe blue. Dark colors.”

        “O-okay. Sure…” Jascha followed him. “Are you, like, sure this is okay?” He couldn’t get the price tags out of his head.

        “Oh, yeah. Absolutely.” Ernest held the door to a big department store open for him. “And it’s not like I’m really paying much for you, anyway. These are mostly gift cards and credit cards that Victor’s left at home over the years.”

        Jascha decided it was okay if it was Victor’s money. He relaxed, and let Ernest put whatever he wanted in his hands for him to try on. He just told himself not to look at the tags, for his own sanity. After about 45 minutes of wandering, he had six button-up shirts, four T-shirts, three pants, four sweaters, and a pair of fancy shoes to try on. It was hard to hold all of it. They ended up buying four of the button-ups, three of the tees, all the pants, two sweaters, and the shoes. Jascha almost threw up when he accidentally saw the cash register.

        “Ernest. Ernest. No, stop,” He whispered as Ernest stood by the cashier. “That’s crazy!”

        “Let me do this,” Ernest signed the receipt, sealing the deal. Once they were away from the cashier, he turned to Jascha. “It’s okay. It’s mostly Victor’s money, and only a little bit of my allowance. Anyways, it’s fun.”

        “Ernest, the only time I’ve ever seen anyone spend that kind of money was on, like, music equipment. At Juilliard.” Jascha felt dizzy. “I didn’t know clothes could cost that much.”

        “Aren’t violins, like, way more?” Said Ernest absently. “Anyway, I literally do not care how much money I spend, so long as it’s Victor’s.”

        “Okay.” Jascha took a few breaths. “Okay, yeah.”

        “I wish you’d tried on leather pants.” Ernest said, after making sure they were back to the car and no one could hear them. “I saw them. Back at Gucci.”

        “They were $7000.” Jascha said flatly.

        “So?” Ernest smiled, turning on the car. “Never hurts to try stuff on.”

        “The employee would have had to watch me put them on,” Jascha said as he buckled his seatbelt. “I’d rather die than have a stranger watch me try to get into leather pants.”

        The drive back to the house was quiet, since Jascha was exhausted from shopping and Ernest’s endorphin high was crashing. By the time they were back, dusk had fallen and it was close to dinner time. Ernest made a beeline for the couch, running a hand through his hair as he looked at his phone. Jascha dropped the bags on the floor and sat beside him, kissing him lightly on the cheek. The trip had been a respite, and only that. They still had the same problems.

        “What’s up?” Jascha asked gently.

        “Uh,” Ernest stared at the small screen intently. “Yeah. I have about 5 missed calls. A voicemail from Dad. And Liam.”

        “Are you going to listen to them?” Jascha sat on the bed.

        “I-No?” Ernest’s hands were shaking. He looked up at Jascha frantically. “I can’t tell them what happened. They absolutely can’t, you know...know about me. Or us.”  

        “Your dad might be able to help,” Jascha said lovingly, forcing all traces of his own anxiety from his voice. “Justine said he supports her and Lizzie.”

        Ernest shook his head hesitantly, then paused. “I…” He put his phone down and rubbed his face. “I’m not Lizzie. Or Victor. I’m the good kid; the one that wants kids and stuff.” His eyes started to gleam. Jascha could feel in his chest that Ernest was about to cry, so he wrapped his arm around him, pulling him closer. Ernest took a breath. “It would hurt him.”

        Jascha stroked his hair off of his forehead. “He loves you,” He said quietly. Ernest’s breath hitched slightly.

        “Can we go upstairs?” Ernest looked up at him with wet eyes. Jascha nodded, and grabbed the bags in one hand. Ernest was firmly attached to the other until they came to the room, where he lay on the bed. Jascha put the bags down and lay beside him.

        “When do we go to your house?” Jascha asked, placing his hand on Ernest’s stomach.

        “Um,” Ernest closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “Tomorrow night.”

        “So soon?” Jascha asked gently. “I thought you had finals next week.”

        “I took the Russian oral exam and my human phys exam yesterday,” Ernest said softly. He placed his hand on top of Jascha’s. “I have papers in the other ones. I’ll do them at home.”

        “What do you want us to be at your house?” Jascha asked hesitantly. He really didn’t want to know the answer, but he needed to. Ernest sighed and pulled Jascha with him onto their sides so they were spooning.

        “We need to be roommates. Friends.” Ernest said miserably. “I...can’t tell my dad what happened. Not yet. And Victor will be there. If he finds out…” Ernest took a shallow breath and dropped to a whisper. “Jascha, Victor might...say things.”

        Jascha wrapped his arms tighter around Ernest, burying his face in his hair. He didn’t want to be around Victor. Especially when he seemed only to add to Ernest’s stress. “Like what?”

        “Well…” Ernest started. “He might decide that it’s funny that I’m...you know. If he finds out about what happened at the frat he’s either going to ask me why I let it happen or, at worst, tell me I deserved it for being dumb enough to be cornered.”

        Jascha seethed. “What person would ever say that?”

        “My brother talked about killing me until I was ten,” Ernest said coldly. “After that he just turned my life into hell if I did something he didn’t like, such as talking to Lizzie or Henry, or asking my dad for emotional support once I was over twelve. Or bringing friends over.”

        “You’re an adult,” Jascha said quietly. “He shouldn’t be allowed this much control over you.” He was so, so tired of people hurting Ernest. He had no love for Victor, and at this rate it was sickening slowly into raw hatred.

        “I am, which is why we’re here with Lizzie rather than at the hotel,” Jascha relaxed slightly as Ernest lifted his hand to his lips and kissed it. “It’s just that Victor is persistent, and I only barely have energy to deal with Lizzie’s nice questions. His are cruel and unusual.”

        “Will you be okay? It’ll be a hard adjustment after-” Jascha started.

        “After getting used to sleeping in the same bed every night and being able to kiss, cuddle, and shower together whenever we want?” Ernest interrupted quietly. A pause. “I’ll try.”

        Jascha wondered if  he’d  be okay. He’d grown accustomed to being able to communicate with Ernest through touch more than talk, and when they did talk it was quiet and intimate. If they needed to act like normal, completely straight friends for an undefined period of time, they would be unable to do any of it. Normal people don’t go through what Ernest was going through. Hell, normal people don’t go through what Jascha himself had been through.

        “Jascha?” Ernest pulled him from his frantic thoughts.

        “Hm?” Jascha let Ernest turn onto his other side so they were facing.

        “Will  you  be okay?” Ernest looked at him with his soft, chocolate-brown eyes.

        “I…” Jascha was about to lie. He decided that was unfair. “I don’t know. I’ll miss you.”

        Ernest smiled sadly at that. “I’ll miss you, too,” he whispered.

        They heard a door close downstairs, and Ernest sat up like a startled cat. Jascha sat up as well, and placed a hand over his. “It’s probably Lizzie and Justine.”

        “Right.” Ernest took a breath. They could hear voices below them, and they looked at each other when they heard a man’s voice.

        “Victor?” Jascha asked, seeing Ernest get nervous.

        “No, that’s Henry,” Ernest said quietly.

        “Do you want to go down?” Jascha kissed him on the cheek as Ernest squeezed his hand.

        “I…” Ernest sighed. “Don’t want to. But I should. I want to see how he’s doing.”

        They headed downstairs, and Jascha watched Ernest do what seemed to be an alchemical transmutation in his countenance. He stood straighter, and flashed his brilliant smile as if nothing bad had ever happened to him. Jascha could only tell things were wrong because he could see the line where the concealer lay under his eyes and the new sharpness of his face from his constant nausea. All the same, he tried his best to match Ernest’s artificial relaxation.

        “Henry!” Ernest said with a beaming smile. “How are you, man?”

        Jascha commanded himself not to blow this. He would be calm. He wished he’d put makeup on, too. He knew he looked tired. “Hi, Henry,” He said with a shy smile.

        “Hey!” Henry smiled, but his eyes looked sad. Jascha swallowed. Had he been so easy to see through? Ernest was convincing enough. Also, why did Lizzie have a can of gasoline?

        “Hey, kids,” Lizzie said, sprawling across a kitchen chair. Justine started taking boxes of take-out food out of a bag. It smelled like Indian food. “How was shopping?”

        “Pretty good,” Ernest said, sitting beside her casually. “We got some stuff for Jascha to wear over break.”

        “Jascha, are you coming over during break?” Henry looked at him, eyes wide. Jascha wanted to back away; he couldn’t tell whether Henry was excited or horrified.

        “Uh, yes?” Jascha said nervously. Ernest shot him a warm smile. “Yeah. Ernest invited me.” Jascha sat across from Lizzie, close enough to Ernest that their legs could touch under the table. He was happy for the contact.

        “That sounds like fun!” Henry said, smiling. Something was off about the smile. He glanced nervously between Jascha and Ernest, and his anxiety was making Jascha fidgety. Ernest must have noticed, because Jascha felt his hand rest on the top of his thigh. He stopped bouncing his knee and took a breath.

        “Food’s ready,” Justine said, carrying plates over. Henry pulled up a spare chair so that all five of them could sit.

        “What were you guys up to?” Ernest asked as he took his plate.

        “Y’know. Stuff,” Lizzie said between bites. “Just normal things. We went grocery shopping, got some coffee. Ran by the hardware store.”

        Jascha nodded, only half listening. He was watching to see if Ernest would actually eat. He picked at a samosa and ate some rice half-heartedly, smiling as he caught not just Jascha but Henry looking at him. Jascha looked at Henry instead. He looked better, but something was off in his face. His brow was furrowed slightly, and he kept glancing at Ernest.

        “Ernest borrowed your clothes the other day,” Lizzie offered, distracting all of them from their thoughts. Henry looked confused.

        “From who? Me?” He said. Ernest smiled apologetically.

        “Sorry, dude. I should have called beforehand,” He said, running a hand through his hair.

        “No, it’s okay!” Henry smiled kindly. “I should grab some clothes while I’m here. What outfit did you choose?”

        “Uhh,” Ernest thought for a moment. “Purple shirt, black pants. Right, Jascha?”

        “Yeah,” Jascha nodded. He wanted them to stop asking Ernest questions so that he might eat something. “Purple shirt with silver buttons.”

        “That’s one of my favorites!” Henry smiled. “I’m sure it looked great on you.”

        “It was small on him,” Lizzie said with a smirk. “Jeans too. Showed off his soccer butt.”

        Ernest blushed. “It was fine.” He ate a little more rice and moved some of the chicken masala around on his plate, picking at it a little bit. He finished the samosa. “I’m feeling pretty beat. I’m gonna head upstairs.” He cleared his plate and got up, but paused before he headed to the stairs. “Oh! Henry, we kinda took over your room. Do you want us to, uh, move to Victor’s?” He said “Victor” like it was a curse. Henry shook his head.

        “I’m happy to sleep in Victor’s room,” He said gently. “Is it okay if I come up and grab my stuff in a little bit?”

        “Yeah, no problem,” Ernest said. He smiled, but even from across the room Jascha could see it was pained. Jascha looked at him to see if he needed him to come too, but Ernest disappeared through the living room and up the stairs. Silence fell over the table.

        “So,” Lizzie said after a few minutes of tense quiet. “I told Henry what happened.”

        “What?” Jascha looked at her with disbelief and anger. It wasn’t her story to tell. “Why? Why would you do that?” Henry looked away. Lizzie’s face stayed steady.

        “Because Ernest isn’t doing well,” Lizzie said calmly. “Is he going to share a room with you at our house?” Her words were measured. Jascha somehow felt small.

        “No,” he said quietly.

        “Is he going to let himself ask to be touched by you?”

        “No, but-”

        Lizzie cut in. “Is he going to tell our dad what happened?”

        Jascha sighed. “Not willingly, no.” He knew she had a point.

        “Ernest, to my knowledge, has never been touched against his will or struck by anyone,” Henry said softly. “This is new for him.” 

        “Actually,” Jascha said flatly. “His ex threw a shoe at his head, which left a mark.”

        “What?!” Lizzie shouted. Justine grabbed her hand and shushed her. “What? Who? Why didn’t he tell me? Oh, I hate this goddamn fucking hellhole of a-”

        “It’s okay,” Jascha said quickly, seeing the concern on all of their faces. “He honestly hasn’t been upset about that incident at all since it happened. It was, like, a month ago.”

        “Still…” Henry said gently. “That’s awful. He doesn’t deserve that.”

        Jascha shook his head. “No, he doesn’t.”

        “What I think Lizzie was trying to say,” Justine interjected, rubbing Lizzie’s back in soothing circles as she seethed with rage. “Is that Ernest is planning to cut off all of his biggest supports the minute he gets home. And she’s worried. We’re all worried.”

        Jascha nodded. “What can we do? He’s afraid of Victor mocking or berating him if he finds out what happened. And he doesn’t want Victor or his father to know about,” Jascha paused. He still had no idea what to call his relationship with Ernest. “About him and I.” Jascha wasn’t certain if Henry knew, but he knew enough to know that if Lizzie had told him about the assault there was a good chance that Lizzie had filled him in on the other stuff too.

        Lizzie groaned and looked miserably at Henry. “I’d forgotten about Victor for a moment.”

        “Would he really stoop so low as to mock a sexual assault victim?” Justine asked gently, looking nervously between Henry and Lizzie. Lizzie sighed.

        “I like to expect the best of him,” she said quietly, “But he’d demand specifics. He’d try to do his diagnostic thing of where and why things went wrong. And this is Ernest. I don’t think Victor has ever not blamed him for any bad thing that happens in his life.”

        Jascha looked to Henry, who looked distressed. “You like him,” He said, almost coldly. “Is he going to hurt Ernest more?”

        “I-I don’t know,” Henry said, shifting under Jascha’s gaze. “If I talk to him first, he might be okay. He’s definitely been concerned about Ernest, in his own way. And he can be gentle when he wishes to be.” Henry sighed. “It’ll be pretty touch and go.”

        “What about his father?” Jascha asked.

        “Any worries he has about Alphonse are misplaced,” Henry’s voice was startlingly confident. “Alphonse would never hold any of this against him or love him any less for being gay. He took me in when my family rejected me for it, and honestly saved my life.”

        Jascha nodded. He felt very tired. He wanted to go be with Ernest. Even with Justine, Lizzie, and Henry on their side, he and Ernest wouldn’t be able to be as close as they were here. He needed to prepare, and the best way he knew to do that was to be with Ernest now. “I’m tired,” he said quietly, standing up from the table. “Even if we know he can tell his father, it’s his choice. He’s scared, and the last thing he needs is more stress.” He looked hard at Lizzie. “This is his choice, and I’m going to respect it. If he changes his mind, that’s okay.”

        As he got up and left, he heard someone come up behind him. He almost jumped when he felt Henry touch him lightly on the arm. He turned to face him, standing awkwardly at the base of the stairs.

        “Yes?” He said. Henry looked anxious, but with a tinge of determination.

        “How are you doing?” Henry asked gently. “I heard you beat up Mason.”

        Jascha sighed. “I broke his nose and a few ribs. He had it coming.”

        Henry actually smiled, which was a bit alarming. “Good. That’s good.”

        “Are you coming up to get clothes?” Jascha asked. He was twitchy and impatient to get back to Ernest. It had been maybe half an hour since he’d gone up.

        “Uh, no, I think I’m gonna do that tomorrow. Ernest seemed rough,” Henry said quietly. “I was actually, uh, gonna ask if you wanted to come with me and Lizzie. To, uh, finish the job.”

        “What?” Jascha was confused. Henry did not seem like a murderer. “You’re going to kill him? How? You’ll get caught. Ernest hates violence.”

        “No, no,” Henry said quickly. “I mean, Lizzie hopes this will kill him. We’re gonna set some fires.” Henry was wearing cute little glasses and a shirt with flowers on it. He did not look like a criminal, much less an arsonist. “Do you want to come?”

        Jascha couldn’t say he wasn’t deeply tempted. His mother had kept him from having a rebellious phase in high school, and he was too busy for trouble in college. But Ernest was upstairs. No amount of fiery justice would be able to hold him through the night and comfort him if and when he had nightmares. “I would love to, but Ernest is here.” Jascha said gently. “I’m glad you and Lizzie are doing it, but Ernest needs someone to be here with him. And I want to be with him.” Jascha felt a sudden, deep sadness. “Especially if he won’t let me be close to him tomorrow and during break.”

        Henry nodded, and smiled sympathetically. “That makes sense. I just wanted to offer.” He paused for a minute. “You’ll tell him he can talk to me? Whenever, and about everything?”

        Jascha nodded. “I’ll tell him.”

        He was thankful when Henry smiled one last time and let him go up the stairs. Jascha brushed his teeth and changed into his pajamas. He found Ernest already in bed, buried underneath the thick pile of blankets. As he got in beside him, Ernest turned and wrapped his arms sleepily around his chest. Jascha put an arm over his shoulders and pulled him close.

        “Did I wake you?” Jascha asked gently, nestling himself under all the blankets.

        “Mhm,” Ernest mumbled. “It’s okay.”

        “I’m sorry,” Jascha lay on his side, so that Ernest was spooned against him. He could already feel Ernest’s breathing returning to the deep breaths of sleep.

        “Jascha, I have a question about Russian,” Ernest said dreamily.

        “Yes?” Jascha felt him hold his hand against his chest.

        “How do you say ‘I love you’?” Ernest asked, almost shyly. Jascha felt something pull at his chest and his heartbeat grow quick and fluttery. He pressed his face into Ernest’s hair.

        “Я люблю тебя,” Jascha whispered. “Did they not teach you that?”

        “No, they did,” Ernest said softly. “I just wanted to hear how you say it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As in the text, the poem in this chapter is T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men," written about post-WWI Europe.


	29. Stealth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry commits crime. Victor considers caring. Jascha goes to Ernest’s house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! As always, thanks for reading! We're nearly at the halfway point, which is exciting! 
> 
> Trigger warnings: Graphic descriptions of a violent nightmare, including burns, descriptions of sexual assault/trauma.

        “Okay, here’s the plan,” Justine pulled out a map of the college. “We’re going to park the truck at this park,” she pointed to a green blotch about a mile from campus. “And then we’re going to walk to the house and do our thing. In and out as fast as possible. Then we ditch the black for street clothes when we walk back to the truck. We’ll take the back way, through the forest, to reduce the chance of being spotted. Elizabeth, you’ve got Ernest’s keys?”

        “Yup,” she said as she twirled them on her finger.

        “You stole them from him?” Henry asked, shocked.

        “Henry, my man, you’re about to become a hardened criminal. Stealing Ernest’s keys is not a big deal.” Justine pat him on the shoulder.

        “I’m a master at this,” Elizabeth grabbed her bag. “ I know how to make it look like an accident.”

        “Do you?” He asked.

        “Are you beginning to have second thoughts?” Justine asked with a raised eyebrow.

        “No,” Henry’s voice hardened like granite. He was never more sure about anything in his entire life.

        “It’s okay.” Elizabeth put her hand on his shoulder. “We’re going to be safe. I won’t let anything happen to us.”

        The car ride was as silent as the black depths of the ocean. Sparks of conversation flashed against monsters’ teeth, but they were only bright and formless. They parked in their truck in the right parking lot and sat in silence for a few minutes. There were other cars around. Good. They wouldn’t look too suspicious. It was fine. This was fine. They had a plan.

        The three walked together toward the frat before Justine broke off to prepare their getaway. Then, Henry and Elizabeth stood alone facing the house. 3:23am. The dark clouded their faces like ink.

        “Are you ready to do this?” Elizabeth asked.

        “I am,” Henry nodded and pulled out a can of spray paint.

        “Good,” she gave him one last smile before setting to work.

        Henry took the spray to the sidewalk that ran in front of the house. There were a million things he wished he could write, but couldn’t because he didn’t want to link anything back to Ernest. In the end, simplicity was best. In red block letters he spelled out JUSTICE.  A fitting label for the smoldering ruins of a monster’s house.

        Finally, he and Elizabeth reconvened. From there on, it was easy. With a nod from Elizabeth, Henry struck a match and dropped it on a line a gasoline and ran. They reached the edge of the artificial forest before the house itself started catching fire. They hunkered behind an oak tree to watch their handiwork. Henry could feel the heat on his face and the light cast drunken shadows across Elizabeth’s. It burned and cleaned out the rot in the house breaking beams and shattering glass. Henry took off his black hoodie and almost looked normal other than the hot tears rolling down his cheeks.

        “For Ernest,” he said and took Elizabeth’s hand.

        “For Ernest,” she repeated. “May they all burn in hell for what they’ve done to him.”

        “It’s better that they burn here, on earth.” Henry growled low and feral. They heard yells coming from the house and disappeared into the night.

        They met up with Justine about halfway between the house and the park. She came up between them and threw her arms around their shoulders. In one hand she held a bottle that Henry could tell from her eyes that she hadn’t touched. “Hey guys! How was the party?” she asked, her tone rising to the stars.

        “Oh man! I wish you could have been there,” Elizabeth answered, her voice bubbling with laughter. “It was just explosive! I just feel terrible that Mason will have to clean up such a mess tomorrow morning.”

        “Yeah,” Henry said, his laugher joining the others’. “It’s a good thing we’ve done most of the work for him.” Waves of golden euphoria crashed over his head. It was no wonder this was Elizabeth’s preferred mode of revenge. He turned back, they couldn’t see the fire anymore, but it was, without a doubt, still blazing.

        “Aren’t we just beacons of kindness?” Elizabeth said, looking over her shoulder.

        “He’ll never forget it,” Henry’s tone dropped to a dark whisper. “Never.”

        There they stumbled, fire-drunk, to Justine’s truck. Almost immediately, a horde of police cars and a fire engine raced down the road and Henry felt sick. What are they going to do if they got caught? Rot in prison for the rest of their lives, probably. There was only so much Alphonse could do. But no, the police cars didn’t stop to question them. In fact, they got in the car and just drove away. There was nothing to it. They just drove back towards the apartment.

        “Uhh, do you think you could drop me off at your house?” Henry asked.

        “Sure, man, but why would you want to? It’s totally fine if you stay with us tonight. I don’t think Victor will mind if you stay in his room,” Justine rolled her eyes and turned on the blinker.

        “Do you miss him already?” Elizabeth teased.

        “I don’t know I just feel….” How did he feel? Terrified. Excited. Vindicated. Sick. Furious. “I just feel a lot right now.”

        “I know,” Elizabeth ruffled his hair. “It sure is something the first time.”

        “May it also be the last,” Henry huffed.

        “Hey,” Elizabeth grabbed his hand again. “We could hope and wish and pray that someday the Frankenstein family will know peace, but we both know that’s never gonna happen. We’ll take justice for ourselves.”

        Henry was able to sneak back into the house with well practiced ease. More difficult was to sneak back into Victor’s bed without waking him. The only time Victor ever looked truly peaceful was in sleep. His dark lashes brushed his cheeks and his chest rose and fell steadily. Henry brushed a strand of hair from his forehead and kissed it. His skin was soft and warm under Henry’s lips.

        He managed to settle next to him, leaning on his good side. He wrapped his arms around Victor’s chest and felt his heart beat underneath his touch. His ribs expanded and contracted with each breath.

        “Henry?” Victor groaned, eyes still closed and voice rough with sleep.

        Henry kissed the back of his head and hushed him. “I’m here, go back to sleep.”

        He finally started to feel the exhaustion settle around his bones. His quads and calves hurt from running and he hadn’t really noticed that he kept his hands balled into fists. He unfurled his fingers and felt the tendons and ligaments cry out in relief. Soon he found himself asleep and standing in front of the burning frat house.

        Henry circled it the way a lion might circle his kill. Screams of terror and mercy filled the forest and echoed around him like ghosts. From one window he could see Mason, broken face plastered against the glass. Blood smeared around his eyes that pinned and twitched like a bird’s. He brought his fingers to the glass and was shocked when they didn't burn. Mason brought his hand to Henry’s and he pulled away. The heat from the fire and the air escaping the house pushed him back.

        He watched, emotionless and cold, and Mason’s hair caught fire and his skin started to melt off his bones. How much did Victor say it took? 162 degrees? That wasn’t actually that hot and the fire was more than enough. His muscle cooked and the smell of meat rose from the flames. The savor of the burning fat would have been a fitting reward to the gods for letting them win for once.

        Suddenly, something knocked him to the ground and the world went black around him. As he stumbled back to his feet instead of Mason, he saw Victor, clawing at the window and begging for help. His screams were lost to the roar of the fire, but Henry could see them being torn from his throat. He looked for something, anything he could use to break the window, but there was nothing. So he watched. He pressed his forehead against the glass and watched as Victor’s eyes burned out of his sockets. He should have been dead now. He should have been, but he still tried to reach for Henry’s hands. One more time. He just wanted to hold them one more time.

        Henry felt something stirring beneath his chest. “No, no don’t go. Please, please don’t leave me,” he tried to tighten his grip around Victor’s chest.

        “Henry--” that voice wasn’t Victor’s.

        “I have to go to therapy. I’ll...I’ll be back soon.” That voice was. Henry felt gentle hands disentangle himself.

        “Please, Victor. Please.” His eyes were still clamped shut and half in a dream.

        “He’ll be back soon, Henry,” Alphonse said as he pulled a blanket up to his shoulders. “It’ll be okay.”

        “Dad…” He heard Victor say, but he fell back into the nightmare.

 

* * *

  

         _So. What happened last night?_   Victor texted Elizabeth and Justine’s chat as soon as he made it to the car.

         _Nothing!_   Elizabeth responded immediately.  J _ust a girl’s night like I said_

         _Really? Cause Henry was screaming bloody murder about fire this morning and I don’t think that’s a coincidence where you’re involved_

_         Victor listen, nothing happened.  _ Elizabeth shot back just a bit too quickly.

         _We may have had a bit too much to drink_.  Justine pitched in, calm and confident even over text.  _ Perhaps it sparked a bad dream. We really didn’t want Henry to go home, but he insisted that he wanted to be with you. _

         _Aw, that’s sweet. Now why the heck are you guys taking Henry on your little arson brigades?_

        “Everything okay, Victor?” His dad asked, glancing over from the road with pinched eyebrows.

        “Yup. Peachy.” Victor pulled his knees to his chest and burrowed farther into his phone, waiting for a response, but the line had gone silent. Victor groaned.  _ Hey are you all going to answer me or what? _

         _What._   Elizabeth typed back.

         _We swear we don’t know what you’re talking about._   Justine pitched in.

         _Okay fine I’ll just ask Henry later. I’m sure he’ll love to talk about it considering the nightmare he just had._   Victor paused.  _ Oh and maybe I’ll get dad involved too since I know how much he just adores hearing about your exploits. Would it be on the local news? _

        Victor reached forward, preparing to flip NPR to the ABC 7 Chicago. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his dad give him an odd look. “Not liking NPR this morning?”

        Victor smiled sweetly at him. “Elizabeth is about to tell me about a really cool story featuring on the local news. I’m waiting to see if it’s on right now.”

         _You little bitch,_   his phone buzzed,  _you goddamn snitch_.

         _Five seconds till I tell everything._   Victor threatened, hand still on the switch despite the fact that Elizabeth couldn’t see him.  _Five_.

         _Victor, I swear to god I will rip you limb from fucking limb._

         _Four._

         _Let’s try to be reasonable about this_

         _Three._

         _Victor Frankenstein_

         _Two._

        Victor started to turn the knob down, cycling through sports networks and political talk shows on his way to channel 7.

         _Fine_.  Justine interjected.

        He stopped, static overtaking the radio as it struggled to connect to some national news program.  _ “...predicting that the polar ice caps will be melted by 2040...in a new study just released from the New York Times...yet to respond with an official statement…” _

        “Oh, lovely.” His father sighed. “More about climate change and all we’re doing to prevent it. This is what Elizabeth wanted you to listen to?”

        “Guess so.” Victor said absently before refocusing on his phone.  Spill.

         _We may have burned down a house last night._   Justine continued on.  _ But rest assured everyone present deserved it. _

_         I mean, I’m sure they did. _ The news story ended and his father switched by to an NPR special on college sexual assault. _ I’m not really concerned at you burning down a pedophile’s apartment or whatever, I just don’t understand why Henry was there _

        He wanted to come.  Elizabeth chimed in.  He’s hardcore now.

        Y _esterday I saw him cry because a dog he saw was just ‘too small and cute,’ try again._

_         It was personal. _ J ustine typed.

        That gave Victor pause. What on earth would be so personal as to spur the normally straight-laced Henry to arson? The only person he could think of were Henry’s parents or maybe Henry’s former fuck of a ‘therapist,’ but then again, Henry would never do something so daring for himself. He already felt guilt for even existing half the time. Taking vigilante-style justice for his own sake? Completely inconceivable. Victor ran through a mental list of people Henry was close to. William, too young to have enemies. His dad would be able to take care of things himself through legal sorcery. Justine, maybe. Elizabeth, also maybe. Himself? For all his mistakes in life, he didn’t really have enemies like that.

         _Personal how?_   Victor asked. _Did someone hurt you or Elizabeth?_   The mere thought made his blood boil.  _ Did you need advice on how to hide a body? Or like how to make a death look faked? I have acid in my lab and no moral compass. Provided the fucker didn’t burn up in the fire and you need to finish the job. _

_         Neither of us are hurt. _ Justine replied _.  _ Elizabeth had stopped talking entirely now. Victor wondered if Justine had taken her phone away.

         _Then who..._ Victor began to type only to taper off. Oh. Of course. He deleted the sentence.  _It’s Ernest, isn’t it?_   He sent.

        There was no response to that. Victor ran a hand through his hair. Naturally. Naturally, it would be Ernest who somehow managed to complicate his life even further. And he wasn’t even properly in it to. No, he’d just gone and fucked up Henry for no good reason.

         _What did he do?_

         _He didn’t do anything._   Justine answered.

        _Okay fine what did Ernest do that made someone else want to hurt him?_

_         It’s none of your business.  _ Elizabeth reappeared, apparently having snatched her phone back from Justine.  _ Why do you care anyway? _

         _Five_.  Victor replied.  _Four_.

         _We took care of it._   Justine cut him off.  _ Ernest is okay now and the man who hurt him got what was coming. _

         _Yeah, but what happened?_   Victor could feel the frustration building behind his eyes like some kind of stress headache.  

         _Do you care? Like actually care?_   Justine typed.

        Did he? Not particularly, but if it was enough to make Henry want to burn a building down, then he probably ought to know about it. It must have been something horrible, after all, and since Ernest was coming home this afternoon. Well.

_         I do care. _

_No you don’t._   Elizabeth replied and he could hear the snap in her virtual voice.  _ Stop lying. _

_         I care enough that I want to know why you went to the extreme _

_         Victor. Drop it. _

_         Why are you so intent on keeping me out of it? What, do you think I’m going to make Ernest talk about it over Christmas dinner or something? _

         _I wouldn’t put it past you._

         _Five._

         _Ernest got in a fight with a boy at his frat._   Justine wrote.   _Mason something or other. It got pretty bad and we got even._

_         Physical fight? _

_         Physical in a sense, yes. _

        Victor frowned.  _And you burned the frat down?_   That didn’t seem right. Even if Ernest was upset, surely nothing was worth burning down his own house over.

_         Yes. _

        Victor hesitated.  _ Did you manage to kill him? _

        _No._   Elizabeth replied bitterly.  _ He’s got third degree burns, but last I heard he’s still kicking. Everyone else got out with minor injuries. _

        He heaved a sigh of relief. Thank god he wouldn’t have to coach Henry through the guilt of being an actual murderer. There was no way his soft-hearted lover would be able to bear that guilt, even if he had been as vindictive as Elizabeth implied he was.  _Okay good_.  As they took the exit, Victor hastened to type quicker. _ If you need to finish him off by the way try taking a syringe filling it with air and injecting it into his veins. Should mimic cardiac arrest. Unusual cause of death for a twenty something, but if he’s already hurt, who’s going to notice. _

     _How do you know this?_   Justine asked while Elizabeth typed,  _ Noted. _

        Victor flipped the phone over on his lap as his dad pulled into a parking space.

        “Need me to walk you in?” His dad asked.

        “Nah, I got it.” Victor collected his jacket and stepped out of the car.

        “Are you sure you’re okay? You were texting quite a bit.” His dad’s cast him a concerned look.

        Victor answered it with an easy smile. “Liz and I were talking about global warming.”

        “I see. Any brilliant revelations from the pair of you?”

        Victor shrugged on his coat. “I think we need heavier restrictions on coal mining and oil use. She wants to guillotine the rich. So, you know, we’ll probably hear about that in the news soon.”

        The worry creases lessened to a fond if exasperated smile. “Honestly? That’s one crime I could get behind. Just don’t tell her that, okay?”

        “Got it.” Victor closed the car door gently and waltzed towards the treatment center. As he rounded the corner to the waiting room, he noted a new shred of panic invade his chest, one he couldn’t seem to account for. He frowned uneasily and yanked his phone from his pocket, reopening the chat with Elizabeth and Justine.  _ Was it bad? _

       _Was what bad?_   Justine asked.

_         What happened to Ernest _

        A beat.  _ Yeah. Yeah it really was. _

_         Okay.  _ Victor turned the phone over in his hand.  _ Is he with you? _

_         Yeah. _

        Okay.  The worry lessened from a bolt to a dull string. He flipped the phone closed and passed it over the desk. That was weird. This was weird. Since when did he care about what happened to Ernest? Victor tried to study the strange invasion in his chest only to have it turn inward and fade away. He...he was probably just worried about Henry. If something happened to Ernest, it would mess Henry up. Heck, it  had  messed Henry up. He was just worried about Henry and Elizabeth’s sanity and safety, which, for better or worse, was still linked to Ernest and his multitude of woes and neediness. That was all.

        Content in his justification, Victor strolled back into the main wing, smiling his pleasant greeting at Marina, who averted her eyes quickly. She still thought he was a corpse fucker. Probably because Victor made sure to give her new details about Jascha’s dick everytime they were paired together for group stuff.

        He glanced to the clock. It was a quarter to nine, meaning he had a bit of time to kill. He wandered over to the radio set up in the corner, glared at the current operator until she walked away and tuned the aging thing into ABC 7.

_ “...though no suspects have yet been identified in the arson attempt made on the University of Chicago’s Phi Gamma Delta house last night. Police say that graffiti found at the scene, reading simply justice, resembles previous arson attacks made in the general Chicago suburbs region. Following the attack, two college students were hospitalized, one for burns, the other for burns and a number of broken ribs, and three were treated for minor injuries. Rest assured that we will stay updated on this story as it develops.” _

        The female reporter was cut short as her male co-anchor laughed.

   _“Well, Nancy, I guess you could say that this frat was simply ‘fire.’”_

        Victor gagged and switched off the radio. Local news was the worst.

        “Well that doesn’t sound good.” Reily, one of the few relatively bearable patients, remarked lightly as she sat beside Victor. “Don’t you go to Chicago?”

        “Yeah. That’s my brother’s frat.”

        She blinked at him, wide eyed. “I- Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Is he okay?”

        “Yeah, I think he was staying with my sister at the time.” Victor remarked absently. “What are we up to today?”

        “Mindfulness, I think.”

        “Think that’ll run long?”

        “Who knows.” Reily frowned. “Probably not too long if Jimmy doesn’t pitch another fit or you don’t derail us with unnecessary details about rigor mortis again.”

        “I was adding to the discussion!” Victor protested.

        “The guy was talking about seeing his aunt get shot, kid.”

        “Whatever. I’ll be quiet this time. I’m not really in the mood to talk about feelings right now anyway.”

        “Aw,” Reily patted his head, “it’s cute that you still seem to think it’s optional.”

        Victor swatted her hand away and grinned. “Everything’s optional if you’re stubborn enough.”

        “True.”

        Reily turned her attention to the radio and began to flick through the channels, on the hunt for a pop station while Victor checked the clock again. Five minutes till nine. God, today was going to drag. All he wanted to do was go home to Henry and check to see that he was okay. That nightmare had been way too loud to be anything but a violent death or maiming and he hadn’t even gotten the chance to see Henry fully out of it. Stupid therapy. Stupid Ernest.

        Victor crossed his arms tightly across his chest. The prickling worry in his sternum had returned again and doubled to a chiseling force. “Hey, uh, Reily?”

        “Yeah?” Reily answered without looking up from the radio.

        “Do you have any siblings?”

        “Uh, yup. One sister, Danielle.”

        “Do you two get along?”

        He’d apparently hit a soft spot. Drawing away from the radio, Reily sat back on her heels and bit her lip. “Not really...I mean, she kinda hates me for everything that happened. With, you know, my breakdown and all. Bit hard to come back from threatening to kill someone’s husband even if the cheating shitbag deserved it. It’s a shame too. We were so close as kids.” She took a deep breath and offered a small smile. “But, hey, that’s why we’re here right? To fix some things.”

        Victor smirked even as the deep seated worry stabbed deeper. “Maybe that’s why you’re here. I’m just here to torture Marina.”

        “God, you really are an asshole.” Reily ruffled his hair affectionately as he glowered. “Looks like it’s nine. Show time, kid.”

        “Yup.” Victor dragged himself up from his place cross legged on the floor. Five hours, then he’d be back with Henry. Seven hours till Ernest would be home and Liz too. Whatever this worry was, he was sure it would dissipate once he could clearly see everyone involved in it and check on their health.

 

* * *

 

        It was easy to pack, since Ernest hadn’t really unpacked anything and all of Jascha’s stuff was either new or Ernest’s. They were completely set several hours before they needed to leave. And Ernest’s phone hadn’t stopped ringing once since they woke up.

        “Ernest, should you answer those?” Jascha asked as he heard Ernest’s phone vibrating for the tenth time in the past three hours. Ernest left it on the small coffee table in the living room, and Jascha could see from the caller ID that it was his dad. Again. “It’s your father.”

        “It’s fine,” Ernest said coldly, using a hand mirror to apply concealer under his eyes. “He can see me in an hour.”

        “He’s probably worried,” Jascha urged gently. “It would help if he heard your voice.”

        Ernest shot him a look but took the phone, to Jascha’s relief. Ernest scooched closer as he picked up and Jascha was happy for an excuse to lean against him. He knew they only had a matter of minutes to be near him, and he wasn’t ready. Also, with his head on Ernest’s shoulder, he was able to hear his conversation.

        “Ernest?” Jascha could hear the panic in the man’s voice. “Are you okay?”

        “Yeah,” Ernest said evenly. “Sorry. I’ve been busy.”

        “What happened last night? Are you alright?” Jascha felt a spike of anxiety. He’d forgotten that Lizzie and Justine were out last night setting fire to the frat. And that Alphonse still had no idea that his son was safely away from it. He also knew that Ernest was still completely unaware of the fire, thanks to his efforts to keep him off the news.

        “What happened last night?” Ernest asked nervously. Jascha could feel the muscles tense in his shoulder.

        “The frat,” Alphonse said with a mix of confusion and concern. “Were you caught in the fire? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours; are you at the hospital?”

        “What? A fire?” Ernest asked. “I wasn’t around last night. I got dinner with Lizzie, Justine, and Henry and stayed the night with them.”

        “Oh, thank god.” Jascha could feel Alphonse’s relief through the phone. “I’m glad you’re safe. What about your friend? Jascha was his name, correct? Did he get out? What about the other people who lived with you?”

        “Uh, yeah. Jascha’s fine.” Ernest said carefully.

        “I know you mentioned inviting him over for a few days during break. Does he need to stay longer? He was planning to live at the frat over break, correct?”

        “Yeah, I think he’d like that. If that’s okay.” Ernest said quickly.

        “Of course it’s fine. Your friends are always welcome at our home.” Alphonse’s voice was warm. Jascha wished he could convince Ernest that it would be safe to tell him about their relationship. Anything would help if it meant they could be together over break.

        “Cool, cool. I’ll tell him. Is the guest room set up?” Ernest asked. Jascha’s heart dropped.

        “Yes, it’s all set with fresh sheets and towels.” Alphonse said gently. “Ernest, are you alright? Your voice is a bit coarse.”

        “I’m okay,” Ernest said flatly. Jascha felt his jaw clench; Ernest hated lying to his dad. “I’ve been a little sick is all. It’s flu season.”

        “Alright. What do you want to eat for dinner?” Alphonse asked. Ernest shifted in discomfort and held out his hand to Jascha, who took it and gave it a kiss. He was starting to worry full time about Ernest’s sleep and food intake. The panic attacks were fading now, which he thought was a good sign, but they were replaced with constant insomnia, low appetite, and nausea. He couldn’t remember the last meal he’d seen Ernest finish. Mac and cheese two days ago, maybe? Jascha squeezed his hand and held him a little tighter.

        “Can we just have chicken soup?” Ernest asked.

        “Sounds good to me. Does Jascha have any dietary restrictions?”

        Ernest looked at Jascha, and he shook his head. “Nope.”

        “Excellent. I’ll expect you both at five?” Alphonse sounded calm again.

        “Yup,” Ernest nodded. “Five.”               

        Five was a little over an hour from now. And the drive was an hour. Jascha felt his stomach twist into ugly shapes, knowing that they only had five minutes of peace before they entered the war zone of the Frankenstein house. A month with them. A whole month with Victor, the worst person alive other than Mason. And possibly Brendon. Ernest hung up his phone and lay into Jascha, who gladly held him close. It was clear that Lizzie and Justine didn’t care if they lay against one another on the couch, and he couldn’t bring himself to feel shame in these last five minutes before they left.

        After a moment, Ernest propped himself up just enough so that they were looking at one another. Jascha reached up and pressed his palm lightly against his cheek, smoothing his thumb over one of Ernest’s furrowed brows. He smiled as Ernest’s face relaxed and his gaze softened.

        “You did something to your hair,” Ernest said gently.

        “Lizzie gave me this stuff. To help it stay out of my face. Mousse, I think?” Jascha didn’t want to talk about his hair. He wanted to be kissed. Or better yet for them to decide to just hide here over break.

        “It smells good,” Ernest said with a soft smile. He ran a hand through Jascha’s hair. “It’s still soft.” Jascha smiled.

        “It’s always soft,” Jascha said warmly. He was happy to see Ernest smile, even if it was just about his hair.

        “I like that it this way. Down and soft,” Ernest’s gaze was warm and affectionate. Jascha basked in it as if it were a sunbeam.

        “That’s why I wear it like this. Because you like it,” Jascha stretched up and kissed him lightly on the lips. He was pleasantly surprised when Ernest didn’t let him pull away, deepening the kiss instead. He blushed when their lips finally separated, knowing Ernest could probably feel his erection against his stomach. He knew he could when Ernest sat up, legs straddling his waist. He was thankful that Justine was at work and Lizzie seemed to be out. He caught Ernest’s hand as it rested over his fly. “Don’t worry about it,”  He said quickly. Ernest looked at him and cocked his eyebrow.

        “Maybe I want to worry about it,” Ernest said with a tired smirk. “It’s been a while since we did anything.”

        “It’s been a week,” Jascha said gently. “Not that long. We should wait until you’re well again.” It was confusing, being attracted to someone who looked as sickly as Ernest did now. “And we’d be late to your house.”

        Ernest sighed and settled back on top of him, laying his head on his chest. Jascha felt a bit reassured when he felt that Ernest, too, had been aroused. It didn’t feel as uncomfortable if they were both horny, he decided. He kissed Ernest’s forehead.

        “If there’s a time when everyone’s out of the house, we should do it,” Ernest said, suddenly resolved. “I don’t like knowing that the last person to touch me, you know...like  that  was him.” He sighed. “I can still feel it, too,” his voice was hollow and weak.

        Jascha hadn’t thought about it that way, but it was true. The assault had been Ernest’s last sexual encounter. He felt his stomach turn. Justine said sex might be harder following the assault, but it also made sense that someone might not want to hold onto that experience as their most recent one. “We can do that,” Jascha said quietly. His cheeks got hot as Ernest kissed his neck, gently enough not to leave a mark. “We should probably go.”

        “Yeah…” Ernest’s voice was small. He got up, and Jascha pulled himself upright. He swept his hair back like Lizzie had shown him that morning; she said to kind of lift the roots and sweep it back to give it ‘volume.’ Ernest sat silently beside him.

        “Ernest?” Jascha asked gently. “What’s wrong?” He noticed that Ernest’s eyes gleamed wet, and he sort of curled in on himself.

        “My dad,” Ernest said gravely. “He’s going to find out something’s wrong. Or Victor. Jascha, Victor is unbelievably smart. He’s going to tear into me.”

        This made Jascha hesitate. He couldn’t say ‘no, I won’t let that happen,’ like he wanted to, because there really wasn’t anything he could do to block Ernest’s family from him without giving away their relationship. “Would it be so bad if your father knew?” He said softly.

        “I don’t know,” Ernest whispered.

        “It may not be bad,” Jascha reached out and stroked his hair. Ernest leaned into the touch. “I’ll try to help keep Victor away.” Jascha had no words for the deep, frigid pain it caused him to see  Ernest  like this, so broken and frail. He was a varsity athlete; a team captain. He was beloved by (nearly) everyone who met him. This hollowed-out person wasn’t him, not really. Jascha loved him now, too, he knew. But he loved him with the desire to restore him back to the golden, sunlit person he was before.

        As they stood, Ernest turned to him and smoothed his shirt. It was one of the new ones; a deep turquoise cotton shirt with satiny textured stripes. Ernest undid the topmost button, and popped the collar out slightly. When he looked up at him, Jascha saw the old light come back in his eyes. “Dude, you dress like a nerd,” Ernest said with a warm smile.

        “And you dress like a jock,” Jascha said, pulling Ernest’s hoodie strings until they were even. It was one of his ‘nice’ hoodies. But it was still a hoodie.

        “You were happy enough to wear my clothes for a month,” Ernest said, stretching up a few inches to meet Jascha’s lips. Jascha cupped his face gently, melting into the familiarity of Ernest smiling against his lips. They were soft against his, blissfully unchanged by the trauma of the past week. Jascha never wanted to pull away from them.

        “Jascha,” Ernest whispered, pulling away only by inches. “Promise me you’ll stay close. At my house.”

        “I promise,” Jascha kissed him again. “I’ll be by your side.” Ernest smiled again, and Jascha pressed their foreheads lightly against one another.

“Are you ready to go?” Ernest asked, running his fingers through his hair.

        “If you are, I am.” Jascha caught his hand and kissed it.

        Jascha was confident at Lizzie’s house. The second they were in the car, he remembered that he wouldn’t have access to the source of his confidence, which was the constant reassurance of Ernest’s gentle touches and kisses. He was relieved that Ernest could drive, since it was a long drive through the city, and he coerced his leg pain into a nice, neat box so that Ernest wouldn’t need to pull over. The last thing Ernest needed was to be reminded of the night when he’d awoken to Jascha screaming in Russian about his legs being crushed. Best to let that one slip away as a freak incident rather than a recurring theme of Jascha’s subconscious.

        The Frankenstein house was huge. By far the largest single-family house that Jascha had ever seen, and he must have looked it too, since Ernest took his hand and squeezed it.

        “We inherited it,” He said self-consciously. “My dad is kinda from, like, a crazy family.”

        “Yup,” Jascha nodded. “Okay. This explains the multiple $7000 gift cards.”

        “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that,” Ernest blushed, “My dad is chill, though. Just tell him about your music and he’ll offer to, like, adopt you or something.”

        Jascha just nodded again. He wanted to turn to Ernest and kiss him one last time, but the front door opened and the tall, imposing figure of Alphonse Frankenstein loomed in the door. And the small one. Who came running out of the house. Ernest grinned and got out of the car.

        “William!” Ernest scooped up the kid, and Jascha noted the additional effort that it took him to do so. The kid didn’t, though, and he hugged Ernest tightly.

        “Ernest! You’re back!” He yelled happily. Jascha forced himself out of the car, hesitant to leave the metal death trap for once. As he got out, William turned to him. “Hello, Jascha!”

        “Hi,” Jascha waved awkwardly. He started unloading the suitcases, using them as an excuse to evade interacting with the Frankenstein family. He could practically feel Alphonse’s eyes on him, probably seeing through his meager, living disguise. He’d know. Out of everyone in Chicago, this man would probably see through him.

        “Allow me to help you with those,” Jascha actually lurched, startled by the low voice of Alphonse behind him. He turned around, and put a bag into Alphonse’s outstretched hand.

        “Um, okay. Thanks.” He said quickly. Thanks was casual. This man was wearing a suit. “Thank you, sir,” Jascha corrected.

        “Please, Alphonse will do,” Alphonse said with a kind smile. Jascha gulped. He was so close to him. Only five feet away. That was close enough to see his hands; the scars on his wrists. He pulled his sleeves further down.

        “Yes, sir. Alphonse.” Jascha said robotically. Maybe he could feign not speaking English. That was how his dad got out of stressful situations.

        “You know, I’m sure we met before.” Alphonse said thoughtfully. Jascha felt panic like an icepick through the heart.

        “Nope. I’m from Russia. Moved here this year.” Jascha said quickly.

        “Really?” Alphonse asked. “Where in Russia? I took a trip there a few years back for work, I wonder if we met there.”

        “I-” I meant Lithuania, is what Jascha wanted to say. He looked over to Ernest, begging him to look over and save him. “I’m from...a small town.” Jascha said. Ernest was talking to William, and not looking at him.

        “Which town?”

        Don’t say Moscow. Don’t say Moscow. Don’t say “Uhh...Moscow. Near Moscow.” Jascha wanted to stab himself. Why had he never bothered learning about Russian geography?

        “Interesting,” Alphonse said. Jascha could swear that he sounded skeptical. Please, he begged the gods, let Ernest look at him and save him.

        Someone must have heard him. Or at least half-heard him, since Alphonse grabbed a second bag and headed to the house. Jascha grabbed Ernest’s backpack and hovered by his side. He flinched when William hugged him too.

        “Ernest, is Jascha your new best friend?” William asked, almost seriously. Jascha patted him awkwardly on the head, but relaxed when Ernest laughed.

        “Yeah, my dude. Jascha’s my best friend,” Ernest’s eyes met his, and Jascha saw their bright affection. He was relieved when William let go.

        “Dinner will be ready soon,” William said. “Do you need help bringing things in?”

        “If you’re willing,” Ernest said warmly. “They’re kinda heavy.”

        “I can do it!” William ran to the car and grabbed the smaller suitcase, and started dragging it towards the house. Jascha smiled weakly as Ernest nudged him with his elbow.

        “Are you okay? You look pale,” Ernest said lightly. “Did my dad scare you?”

        “Mhm,” Jascha nodded absently. He was still hooked on his complete failure as a Russian-American to know even one small town in Russia. He sighed. “When are Lizzie and Justine coming?”

        “Later,” Ernest said as they walked. “They had to pack stuff for Victor, too. He’s apparently in treatment again, so he’s not allowed out of the house.”

        “Treatment?” Jascha asked nervously.

        “I was not exaggerating when I said he’s insane.” Ernest said gravely. They’d reached the doorstep. “He’s here, so just try not to say anything that might interest him. Talk about music.”

        Jascha nodded. Tchaikovsky would be a good dinner topic. Everyone loved him. “I can talk about music for days,” he said gently.

        The inside was somehow even scarier than the outside. Dark wood everywhere, and richly patterned carpet on every floor. The house was exactly what he’d imagined when he’d read  The Haunting of Hill House  in high school. He desperately wanted to go hide in his room. Preferably with Ernest. He’d been dead before, so who was to say he couldn’t sleep for a whole month? If he had Ernest with him he was sure he’d be fine.

        They left the bags by the stairs. Dinner was ready, they’d been told. It was five. Jascha was raised in a European household; to him this was more like afternoon tea than dinner. But he followed Ernest to the dining room all the same. Sure enough, there he was. Victor Frankenstein. The man, the myth, the psychopath. Jascha wanted to tear him out of his chair and force him to explain why he’d brought him back. But he promised Ernest he’d be close by, and Victor sat on the opposite side of the table from where Ernest sat, so Jascha’s interrogation would have to wait. He sat beside Ernest. He breathed when he felt Ernest press his knee against his. He was there. Victor didn’t matter.

        Alphonse returned with the meal, and served everyone. Once they were all seated, wine was passed around. It skipped Victor deliberately, and William. Ernest didn’t take any either. Heny poured himself a glass, as did Alphonse. As a sign of gratitude, Jascha poured himself a small serving, and wished it was vodka. Then at least this discomfort would taste like home.

        They made it maybe fifteen minutes before anyone spoke to him. He was content to hear William speak of whatever it was he was reading-- Greek something something. Iliad? Jascha knew Achilles was the guy who had the heel. He nodded along. He smiled when William said that Ernest was kind of like Achilles because he was so good at sports and inspiring people. Jascha liked Ernest, so he guessed he probably liked Achilles too.

        “Jascha,” Alphonse said quietly. It felt unbearably loud. Jascha turned to look at him. “I hear you’re a musician.” The carnal instinct to run pierced him like an arrow.

        “Yeah,” He said quickly. “It’s really just for fun, though.”

        “What?” Ernest turned to him. “You said you went to Juilliard. Henry said that’s, like, music Harvard.”

        “More selective than Harvard, but yes,” Henry said softly. Jascha looked at him as if he’d just killed his mother.

        “Juilliard?” Alphonse said, a hint of impressed approval in his voice. “I adore attending performances there when I’m in new York. What brings you to Chicago?”

        “Family.” Jascha said flatly. “My grandparents live here.” That was a complete lie. His mother’s parents were dead. His grandmother was in Moscow. And sometimes Vilnius.

        “They must be very proud of you,” Alphonse said kindly. Jascha nodded. He glanced to Victor, who seemed very, very interested in stirring his soup.

        “I think so,” Jascha said stiffly.

        “What’s your favorite piece, Jascha?” Henry saved him. Jascha looked at him with complete and utter adoration. Finally, he could talk about something he knew about.

        “My favorite piece to perform is the Vitali Chaconne in G Minor. I played it-” Jascha was about to talk about his senior capstone performance. In New York. He felt the sudden pains in his legs, and begged not to blackout at the dinner table. “I played it for the first time here, in Chicago.”

        “The Vitali is a beautiful piece,” Alphonse said with a warm tone. He frowned slightly when he looked past Jascha to Ernest. “Ernest, are you feeling alright? You’ve hardly touched your soup.” Jascha tried not to feel relief at having the attention dragged from him, especially since it was at Ernest’s expense. But the pain in his legs was subsiding and he felt it anyway.

        “Uh, yeah,” Ernest shrunk under the analyzing gaze of his father. And his brother. Victor watched him like a hawk. “I’m still getting over a stomach flu, so I’m not that hungry.”

        Jascha tensed. He’d hoped, perhaps recklessly, that being home might somehow recover his appetite. He felt at a loss to help. Henry was politely averting his eyes, either in sympathy or nervousness. Victor looked at him as if he were prey. Alphonse looked at him with raw parental concern. Ernest looked at none of them, and turned to William instead, who was finished eating.

        “Do you need any help with homework?” He asked gently. William smiled at him.

        “I have a lot of math homework tonight,” He said almost excitedly. “Do you want to help me with that? I have a little bit of science homework, too.” Victor seethed. Jascha could feel it.

        “Do you want to go upstairs and work on it together? I have some papers to write, too.” Ernest shot him one of his brilliant smiles. The kid beamed back.

        “Yeah!” William turned to Alphonse. “Dad, can we be excused?”

        “I-” Alphonse started. He sighed, brow furrowed. “Yes. You may be excused.” With that, William got up and brought his plate to the kitchen. Ernest lay his hand on Jascha’s knee before he left; a silent sign of apology. Jascha looked to him as he left, abandoning him with his father and his emotionally-predatory brother. And Henry, but he wasn’t that scary anymore.

        The rest of dinner was very quiet. Alphonse seemed lost in thought, and Henry too. Jascha certainly wasn’t going to speak to Victor. Not now, not ever. Or at least not in front of his father. What Jascha wanted to ask him about was best saved for a more private setting.

        After dinner, Jascha’s sole mission was to figure out where Ernest was and go there. He could be safe with him and the kid, away from the gaze of Alphonse and the pricking sharpness of Victor’s presence. The issue was that the house was gigantic and no one had bothered explaining where all the bedrooms were. He climbed up the stairs and wandered.

        “Ernest’s room is upstairs,” A cold voice said from behind him. Jascha turned and saw Victor. He looked better now than he had in the lab; his hair was clean and he seemed less bony. “Second one down from the stairs. To the left.” Second door down from the stairs. He could remember that.

        “Thanks.” Jascha said expressionlessly. He climbed the stairs, walked to the door and knocked, and almost forgot he wasn’t supposed to kiss Ernest when he answered. He was so relieved. Ernest pulled him inside, locking not one but three locks once they were inside. William was happily doing math on the bed while Ernest sat at a desktop.

        “Did Victor say anything to you?” Ernest asked quietly, vicious hatred in his voice.

        “Just which room was yours,” Jascha said gently. He touched Ernest’s wrist lightly before grabbing a book from Ernest’s shelf and sitting on the bed.  _ Sir Gawain and The Green Knight _ . He had no idea what the book was about, but it was a book, so he’d read it. He’d read and do anything at this point. Anything to get away from Victor and Alphonse. Anything to be closer to Ernest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Vitali Chaconne in G-minor is the piece Jascha is referencing: https://youtu.be/97xlBipnzG8


	30. Brinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry finally gets it. Victor takes a step towards the edge. Jascha plays the piano.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HALF WAY POINT!! Yay! As always, we love hearing from you! If you want to hang out, feel free to find us on tumblr! Pop an ask, send a message, or just become mutuals! (moth-femme, knightvanguard, and time-and-space-in-your-face) 
> 
> Trigger warnings: Not too many this time around! Mentions of issues/anxiety regarding food and sleep.

        “God, you really are still fucked up aren’t you?” Victor said as he let Henry rest his head on his shoulder. The mental stress of having Ernest, Jascha, Victor, and Alphonse in the same room was absolutely exhausting. It’s a small miracle no one tore anyone else limb from limb.

        “I think you just need to come to terms with the fact that I’m easily fuck up-able,” Henry laughed. “It’s really not a big deal. I’ll get over myself.”

        “But arson’s, like, a major crime,” Victor argued. “I didn’t think there were many things that could drive Mr. ‘I Cry at Pretty Flowers’ to a life of crime.”

        “For the last time, Victor, I’m not telling you what happened to Ernest. It’s not my story to tell,” Henry felt a twinge of annoyance rise in his voice.

        “But you’re hurt and I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong,” Victor really did seem desperate.

        “Okay, just think of it like this,” Henry said as he held Victor’s hand. “Remember when I first started living with you and Elizabeth begged you to tell her why?” He nodded. “And you didn’t because you knew that I wasn’t ready for that yet?” He nodded again. “Well, it’s the same thing. Ernest will tell you when he’s ready, just like how I eventually told Elizabeth.”

        “But--”

        “Victor, I promise it really is exactly the same. If you do want to make this easier for me, then just...believe that Ernest isn’t making up his emotions for attention, okay?” Henry closed his eyes and leaned deeper into Victor.

        “But he always--”

        “No, really. I mean it,” he let the gravity of his voice settle. “Just believe him, if not for his sake, then for mine.

        “But Henry--”

        “Victor, please. I know you two don’t get along but it would mean a lot to me if you tried,” he tightened his grip on his hand. “All I need you to do is try.”

        “I will try,” Victor said as he pressed his nose into Henry’s hair.

        Henry pressed a kiss to his knuckles and then to the palm of his hand. “Thank you, love.” He turned and kissed Victor’s lips. They were half parted from being about to speak, but he sank into the kiss instead. Henry thought that his insides would turn to liquid as he draped his arms over Victor’s hips. The warmth and press of their lips clouded the back of Henry’s eyes in honey-soft light. He opened his mouth and tipped back his head to invite Victor to deepen the kiss. Henry felt light and energy pool in the pit of his stomach.

        “Is this going to be okay?” Victor asked as he pulled away.

        Henry pulled him against his chest and allowed himself to be enveloped by Victor’s scent. Would he be okay? It was, obviously, a valid concern. He wanted Victor more than anything, in spite of everything. “I think I’ll be okay if we go slowly. I trust you.” Henry buried his face in the crook of Victor’s neck and allowed himself to be held. Victor’s fingers worked into the tension of his shoulder muscles. Henry relaxed into his touch and pressed soft kisses to his throat and jaw.

        “Can I take off your shirt?” Victor asked, his fingers hovering over the top button.

        “Please,” Henry hadn’t noticed his voice go so shaky and high. As Victor undid the buttons he suddenly became extremely self conscious about his skin. It still looked...bad and he didn’t really want Victor to see him as fragile and deformed.

        “You look so much better,” he said as he ran his hand down Henry’s chest. The line between healthy and damaged skin was not nearly as noticeable as it had been before. Victor kissed the base of his throat and down towards his stomach.

        “Do you really think so?” Henry asked. “It’s so ugly.”

        Victor gathered Henry gently in his arms and held him so he was all but sitting in his lap. “You could never be ugly. Never.” He kissed the shell of Henry’s ear and drew the tiniest sound from his throat. Henry blushed and rested his head against the headboard, exposing his neck, which Victor took full advantage of. Henry gasped as Victor’s fingers brushed over his nipple.

        “Was that okay?” Victor asked quickly as he drew away.

        “Yeah, yeah, that was wonderful,” his voice was thick arousal. “I had no idea--”

        “No idea?” Victor asked, “Have you never...”

        “No, never,”

        “Does that mean that I’m…”

        “You’re the first,” Henry was so close to Victor’s face that he couldn’t focus on his eyes.

        “And you want me?” Something broke in Victor’s voice. He tightened his grasp around Henry’s waist and pressed their foreheads together. Henry brought his hand to his jaw and ran his thumb over his cheek.

        “I’ve always wanted you.” Silence hung in the air like mist before Victor kissed him again. Desperation filled Henry’s mouth like honey. He wanted Victor now, more than air and more than sleep.

        “You are far too dressed for this,” he said, gently holding the collar of Victors shirt. The fabric was soft under his hands, but it needed to go. His skin was softer.

        A roguish grin spread across Victor’s face. “Would you like to do something about it?” he asked.

        “I would,” Henry laughed as he tried to pull the sweater over his lover’s head. In his head, it was a graceful gesture, but in reality, it got stuck on his head and made is hair stick up.

        “I am so sorry,” Henry laughed into Victor’s chest.

        “Nerd,” he whispered and he gathered Henry in his arms once again and laid him on his back.

        With their bare chests pressed against one another, Henry could feel the heat radiating from Victor.

        “Can I touch you?” Victor said as he traced his fingers along the hem of Henry’s pants.

        “Yes, please,” Henry kissed the top of Victor’s head. His brow furrowed so sweetly as he focused on the task at hand.

        Victor ran his hands over Henry’s chest and down his sides, settling against his now bare hips.

        “Please?” Henry asked. His voice was strained as he tried to keep his composure, but warmth pooled between his legs. His heart pounded in his chest as Victor continued to press kisses against his stomach. “Please, please, Victor,”

        Victor straddled his thighs and Henry could feel the heat of his erection against his own. Victor pressed a kiss to his forehead and wrapped his hand around the base of his cock. Henry moaned and covered his mouth with his hand. Victor pressed kisses against Henry’s cheeks and temples as he began to move.

        “Is this alright?” he asked.

        “It’s wonderful, Victor,” Henry said, each word interspersed with sighs of delight. “More, please.” Henry spoke into the back of his hand. As Victor quickened his pace, he supported Henry’s back and held him up. Henry flung his arms around Victor’s shoulders and tangled his fingers in his hair.

        “Victor, I think I’m going to--”

        He murmured sweet things into Henry’s ears as he came. They breathed together and Henry was fully aware that Victor was supporting his entire weight in his arms. Every sensation felt electrified, but he could do was curl into Victor’s embrace. His limbs felt heavy and warm and Victor pressed chaste kisses to his cheeks and forehead. He laid on his side and felt the steady rise and fall of his chest against his ear.

        “I’ll be back,” Victor whispered into Henry’s hair.

        “Wait, but I need to--” he raised his arm to try to pull his lover back. Victor sat next to him and brushed his hair away from his eyes.

        “Not tonight,” he said as Henry gently held onto his forearm. “Let me take care of you.”

        Henry gave a mewl of protest but didn’t argue. As soon as Victor returned, he wrapped his arms around him, nuzzling into his skin. Victor took a warm, damp washcloth and cleaned off his stomach. It was a surprisingly tender gesture and Henry wanted more than anything to take Victor in his arms and never let him go ever again.

        Victor’s eyes glowed with love and affection as he helped Henry back into a t-shirt and pajama pants. He curled against his chest and let his lover rub calming circles into his back. Twinges of guilt cut into his fingertips, but for now he was able to fight it back. It wasn’t real, after all. Victor was real and he was here and he held Henry so he was safe, and nothing could hurt him.

        “I love you,” Victor whispered into his hair.

        “I love you too,” Henry’s voice was muffled by Victor’s shirt, but it was for the better. Hopefully Victor couldn’t tell that he was crying. They were tears of happiness, but tears nonetheless.

 

* * *

 

         Victor was going to coin it as a new emotion: Henry Happiness. That very particular feeling he got when, despite literally everything else in his life combusting and crashing into a fiery garbage pit, Henry managed to make him laugh or smile or content within his own skin once more. Victor snorted to himself. He supposed he could add making him moan and pant to that list now too, considering last night. His stomach jumped just thinking about it, curling warm and sweet around his heart like Henry’s arms around his shoulders; his hands in his hair; his full erection against Victor’s and brief moments of complete bliss. Victor couldn’t help but smile to himself as waltzed to the kitchen.

        Henry Happiness. Yeah, that was the ticket.

        Victor hummed a small, absent minded tune as he set about preparing the coffee maker for morning rounds. He didn’t have therapy today, which meant that he was entirely free to take as long as he wanted to make a sugary nightmare concoction before returning to Henry in bed. The poor guy seemed so absolutely wiped out when Victor had left, he was sure his brief absence wouldn’t be missed. Plus with caffeine in his system, Victor could ensure he was fully alert and ready to lavish attention onto him once Henry woke up. Some part of him still squirmed in fear that Henry would regret the incident, but he tried to push that out of his mind. Henry had said he wanted it, after all. Hell, Henry had all but said he’d waited for him. Still, Victor had never slept with a virgin before. It was a weird thought that he was, for once, the more experienced one in the relationship.

        He frowned and sighed. It was fine. There was nothing to mess up here. He already knew Henry loved him. That was an established fact.

        “Now stop being dumb and make your coffee.” Victor mumbled to himself as he yanked the largest mug he could find from the shelf. He wandered to the pantry.

        Absorbed in the task of locating where his father had hidden the real sugar, Victor barely even noticed the movement at his back before a hand tapped on his shoulder.

        “Fuck!” Victor leapt back and away, pressing himself flat against the panty door as he took in his father’s slight smile and raised hands.

        “Language.” The man said as if by instinct. He paused. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, Victor.”

        Victor recovered his breath. “It’s alright.” From the corner of his eye, he spotted the sugar jar lodged behind two bottles of wine and a package of granola bars. He grinned victoriously and bent down to retrieve it.

        His father watched him return to the counter with a disapproving gaze. “You know,” Victor lumped nine spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee, “you’re going to give yourself a heart attack one of these days.”

        “I’ll die as I lived. Stupid, but undeniably gorgeous.” Victor chugged the thick, mucky drink in one go and began pouring himself a second glass.

        His dad observed with the action with barely concealed distaste. “I will be hiding that sugar better for tomorrow morning.”

        Victor said nothing, smiling silently as he felt the rush of diabetes-inducing goodness begin to course through his veins.

        His father poured himself a cup of the coffee (black, of course) and wandered over to the small kitchen table, picking up whatever legal document he’d left there last night, while Victor propped himself on the counter. He snagged that day’s newspaper from its place beside the sink and scanned the front page. Just as predicted, the frat fire story covered most of it, big bold letters screaming about arson and the tragedy of uncouth youth. Uncouth? What was this, 1817? He took another chug of his coffee as he continued to read down. Blah, blah, blah, tragedy, blah, blah, national statement. Something or other about a debate over the role fraternities should have on college campuses. Victor picked out the name Mason Williams as the only victim still hospitalized from the arson attack, no longer in critical condition. Hm. Elizabeth better act fast if she still wanted to murder him. Victor wondered if he could convince her to let him help. He so rarely got access to fresh bodies…

        But he wasn’t supposed to be thinking of that kind of thing anymore, was he? Victor set the paper aside and filled up a kettle for Henry’s tea.

        The kitchen settled back into an easy silence, content in the predawn.

        “Good morning, Jascha. Did you sleep well?”

        Victor froze in place.

        He turned slowly, peering back to see the image of his creation hovering in the doorway. As Victor met his eyes, the other looked quickly away. Huh. So it wasn’t just the shock of seeing him last night that had made the experiment act strange. Jascha seemed to honestly...what? Fear him? Hate him? Smart money said both.

        Victor kept his back to the counter and his eyes sharp as Jascha shuffled. “Sorry sir, or uh, Alphonse. I was looking for some water.”

        Jascha did not acknowledge Victor’s presence, instead focusing entirely on his father, who smiled kindly. “Of course. I’ll grab you a glass. Did you want some coffee as well? It’s a new batch, just brewed.”

        Jascha’s gaze flicked to Victor. “No, thank you.” He said. Okay, so not quite fear, Victor decided as he prowled over to stand beside his father. Nervousness and anger. He was spot on with the hate, though. He could feel it in the other’s stiffness now and the way he’d hovered over Ernest the night before, like a brooding hen over her chick. Victor wondered, vaguely, what poisonous thoughts Ernest had planted in Jascha’s head in the month they’d been apart. A million and a half stories about Victor’s villainy, no doubt, complete with Disney level smoke and screens and maniacal laughter.

        Every fiber in Victor desperately wanted to leave the kitchen, flee back upstairs to his warm bed and  dark room  and the blissful realm of Henry Happiness, but he didn’t. Instead, Victor took a seat at the kitchen table and adopted his most relaxed smile. “Don’t be bashful, Jascha.” He said. “Take some coffee. You look dead on your feet.”

        Jascha’s bright blue eyes flicked towards him, striking but not too overwhelming against his dark hair. Victor had done that. Victor had picked out those eyes and that hair and that face. He took a deliberate sip of coffee.

        “A bit of caffeine might revive you.” He swirled his mug. “I know I’m practically a corpse till I’ve had two cups at least.”

        “Victor.” His father warned, obviously reacting to tone rather than content. Victor hadn’t even realized his voice had gotten so cold and jagged.

        Jascha’s discomfort appeared to heighten, indicated by the twitch of his right eye. Victor considered it. Fascinating. It was the same as all the interviews he’d watched while doing research on the man, meaning Jascha Simonis displayed the same tells of nervousness in life as he did in afterdeath. It appeared, then, that he had retained muscle memory even to the level of minor responses. Victor itched to record the observation only to remember, with pain, the fate of his poor research journals.

        As the moment of forced eye contact slipped by, Jascha moved himself mechanically into the body of the kitchen. He took the glass of water Victor’s father offered gratefully and began a hasty exit, only to be stopped by his dad’s hand on his shoulder. “Jascha, won’t you sit with us a moment? I’d love to talk to you more about the Vitali performance you mentioned briefly last night.”

        “Oh, I-” Jascha stuttered. “I should probably-”

        He made an aborted motion to the corner of the house which held William’s bedroom. His father frowned and glanced to Victor, who shrugged. Apparently their esteemed guest was still having trouble with the floor plan.

        “Come on.” Recovering fast, his dad sat back at the table and offered Jascha a chair. “It’s nearly six thirty anyway. I’m sure Ernest will be wandering through in search of a powerbar any moment.”

        “Yeah, Jascha.” Victor made sure to say the name the same way he’d say ‘subject’ or ‘experiment.’ Clinical and detached. “Sit with us. We’d  love  to hear more about how you came to the university. I swear you look so familiar…”

        Jascha blinked at him, jaw near to slack with disbelief and eyes wide with panic. Victor answered him with a slow, predatory grin. “We must have met before.”

        “No, I don’t believe so.” Jascha’s jawline strengthened and a touch of determination invaded his voice. Fighting back, then. Not the meek creature he seemed to be. Or used to be.

        “Nah, we’ve met. I’m sure of it.” Victor scratched his chin. “Huh, I- Maybe in lab?”

        “I haven’t taken any lab courses.”

        “Are you positive? I just feel like I associate you so strongly with, like, biological alterations, or maybe my physics lab? Did you ever take electromagnetic theory with Professor  Necro Mancer.”

        His father shot him a strange look. “Victor, that is no way to speak about a professor.”

        “No, Dad, I swear that was his name!” Victor smiled pleasantly at Jascha. “He was Lithuanian.”

        Jascha still hadn't sat. His hands were clutched at his side, knuckles white and veins fully visible against the skin. With his long-sleeved shirt riding up slightly, Victor could just barely catch a glimpse of Jascha’s wrist scars. They weren’t infected by the look of them and, in fact, appeared to be healing quite nicely. He wondered if that was Ernest’s work. But then again, they were perhaps too nicely healed to have been treated by such an amituer. As he focused in on the hands, he could see the individual fingers twitch and curl. There was no sluggishness or paralyzation in the movements, indicating a complete nerve connection.

        “We haven’t met before. I’m sorry.” Jascha spit out from between gritted teeth. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Victor, sir-”

        “Oh wait, now I remember!” Victor crowed. “We met at that history talk about the Leo Frank case!”

        Jascha stared at him blankly. “What.”

        “Yeah, you remember the one! Professor Reinderheart gave that great intro to the proceedings then we split up to form a discussion sections for the different pieces of physical evidence. You were in my group.”

        “Was I?” Jascha said flatly.

        “Yup. It was a fantastic talk,” Victor spoke directly to his father, “and you know me, I’m not very interested in legal stuff. Jascha, though- man, he was so into it! And so knowledgeable! When you started talking about the members of the Knights of Mary Phagan!” Victor mimed an explosion beside his head. “So impressive!”

        “You’re interested in the Leo Frank case?” His father said, leaning forward over the table. Jascha leaned back. “You probably didn’t know, but that case is a special interest of mine.” His father’s eyes practically sparkled with enthusiasm.

        “What?” Victor said. “No way! I didn’t know that!” He took another sip of his coffee. “Well, as I said, Jascha here,” he patted the man’s shoulder, noting how he flinched under the touch, “is a huge Leo Frank freak. I’m sure he’d be happy to talk to you all about it!”

        “I, uh...” In the space of seconds, Jascha’s face seemed to have drained of blood completely. “I don’t-”

        Victor smirked as he stood and stretched. Behind him, the kettle began to scream. “I’d, uh, I’d love to stick around, but I should really get Clerval his tea.” He grabbed a mug, filled it with water, and snagged a tea bag at random from the shelf. “Don’t you boys have too much fun!” He called as he strode out of the kitchen. Behind him, he could clearly hear his father’s rant voice activate.

        “So, Jascha, how much do you know about corruption of the Georgia Board of Police circa 1913?”

        Victor mounted the stairs at a run, flying up to his room. He threw the door open and, catching the sight of Clerval still asleep, slinked over to join him. “Good morning.” He whispered as he gently shook his shoulder. The other blinked away slowly. He smiled dreamily up at Victor.

        “Morning, my love,” he said. As he stretched, Victor watched the pull of his shirt with absent hungriness.

        When Clerval slid over in bed, Victor jumped at the opportunity to rejoin him under the covers, relishing the feel of the other’s slightly sweaty skin against his own. He carefully supported the mug as he moved. “Brought you tea.”

        Clerval smiled and gripped the mug, taking an experimental sip. “Oh, uh. Thanks.”

        “Is it okay?” Victor asked with a raised eyebrow.

        “Yeah. Just not a huge fan of Irish Breakfast.” Clerval caught his eye and smiled gently. “It’s perfect. Thank you again, Victor.”

        Victor smiled in content and leaned back against the soft pillows. “Of course, Clerval.”

        There was a long pause.

        “What did you just call me?”

        “Hm?” Victor cracked an eye. “What?”

        “I…” Henry hesitated, gaze flicking over Victor as if he could analyze him like a book of poetry. “It’s, uh...it’s nothing…” Henry shook his head and wrapped a sweet arm around Victor’s chest from behind, allowing him to cuddle close. “Just my imagination playing tricks on me.”

        Victor hummed contently and allowed himself to sink back into Henry Happiness.

 

* * *

  

        Jascha was a man of selective interests. He knew about music, ballet, acting, Russian and Soviet literature, other books, a little bit of math, and maybe three movies. And he knew what Ernest had told him about soccer. That was it. So when Victor abandoned him with his father; evidently a lawyer; and left, he was in hot water. Luckily, one thing Jascha did have going for him was his inability to lie. He simply told Alphonse the truth: Victor was mistaken, and he’d never taken legal classes. He was simply visiting and Victor may have seen him shadowing during school. He felt bad for disappointing Alphonse, though, so he stayed attentive and asked clarifying questions while the man explained the intricacies of what appeared to be an array of historic cases.

        “...and that’s how we came to have fire safety laws.” Alphonse’s face changed. “Are you feeling alright?” He said, looking past Jascha.

        Jascha turned in his chair. Whatever relief he’d felt when Alphonse stopped talking about laws was lost when he saw Ernest. For the first time in a few days he came down in a t-shirt, one that Jascha was used to seeing as rather fitted. It hung loose around his waist and where it did hug his chest, it betrayed the faint hints of his ribs. In the pale morning light the slices of bone under his eyes and along his cheeks were startlingly clear, and without Lizzie’s makeup his eyes were bruised. He hadn’t slept. Jascha didn’t have to ask.

        “I’m okay, Dad,” Ernest’s voice was slightly raspy. “Is there coffee?”

        Concern lined Alphonse’s face, and Jascha saw his jaw tense. “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Alphonse said stiffly. Ernest left and came back with a mug of it, sitting next to Jascha. Alphonse’s brow was knit with worry. “I thought you didn’t like coffee.”

        Ernest smiled weakly. “It’s okay, I guess. I just feel tired today.” Ernest grimaced as he took a sip of the drink.

        “Ernest,” Alphonse’s tone changed, and commanded Jascha’s attention. He knew that tone from his own father, though it was foreign to him in English. Jascha glanced to Ernest, who gripped the mug with white knuckles. “What’s going on?”

        “I’m okay,” Ernest said firmly. He met his father’s eyes, which Jascha couldn’t imagine helped his case. “I was sick, and I’m upset about the frat.”

        Alphonse’s eyes scanned his son’s face. Jascha could feel the anxiety rising off of Ernest like mist. Under the table he pressed his leg to his, wishing he could reach out for his hand. Alphonse sighed. “It makes sense that you would be upset,” He said carefully. “If there’s anything else that’s on your mind, I’m more than prepared to listen to your worries.”

        Ernest shifted in his seat. “Thanks,” Jascha watched his hands. Each tendon was taught and stressed where it squeezed the cup. “I’m really okay. Can I show Jascha the piano?”

        Jascha perked up immediately. Piano. Not a violin, but it was an instrument and he knew how to play it. He thought he’d seen one last night out of the corner of his eye, but he was too focused on surviving dinner to ask.

        “Of course,” Alphonse said, almost sadly. Jascha felt like it must be unfamiliar, this distance between him and his son. He could relate to Alphonse’s feelings.

        “Thank you,” Jascha said quickly as he stood. He walked with Ernest out of the kitchen and through part of the living room before Ernest stopped abruptly, swaying slightly. Jascha caught his arm quickly, panic rising in his chest. “Ernest,” he whispered. “What’s wrong?”

        “Stood up too fast,” Ernest said quietly. “Just a little woozy.” He stood up straighter and shrugged off Jascha’s arm. “I’m okay now. C’mon, piano is right over here.”

        Jascha stared at him for another second before following him. He was worried. He was more than worried. Ernest wasn’t talking to him, because they’d have to talk alone, and it would be suspicious if they were alone together behind closed doors. Ernest’s small progress with sleep back at Lizzie’s house appeared to be broken. He allowed himself to be led to a beautiful grand piano. He ran his fingers over the keys lightly, reveling in the familiar feeling of the ivory and ebony. He sat at the bench and motioned for Ernest to sit beside him, smiling when he did.

        “Do you know how to play?” Ernest asked. Jascha shrugged.

        “I’m adequate. I can make it through my fair share of Chopin nocturnes.” Jascha said lightly. “Is it okay for me to play it?”

        There was a flicker; a smile; and Ernest came back to himself. He looked up at Jascha warmly. “Dude, I wouldn’t have told you about it if you weren’t allowed to play it. I would never subject you to torture like that.”

        “Good,” Jascha turned to the piano, contentment settling in his stomach. “I wouldn’t have survived such a cruel torment. Do you like Chopin?”

        Ernest laughed lightly. “I don’t know who that is, but sure.”

        Jascha only knew a few pieces for piano by memory. The were the ones his mother taught him when he was little. The one he knew best was Chopin’s nocturne number two in E-flat major, so he’d start with that. He closed his eyes as he played, just like his mother did. He smiled when he felt Ernest slide so that their legs were pressed against one another, even though it made the pedals a little harder to use. He opened his eyes and stole a glance at Ernest, who seemed sleepily content now that they were somewhat alone. The traces of a smile still lay on his lips as he watched Jascha’s hands play.

        Out of the corner of his eye he watched the open entryway to this portion of the...extended living room? He had no idea what to call these muli-part sprawling rooms. This was just the music room, judging from the decor, books, and piano. He startled and stopped playing as he saw someone move in the doorway.

        “No, please continue!” It was Henry. And...Victor. He felt Ernest bristle like a startled cat beside him, moving away by a few inches. “You play beautifully, Jascha.” Jascha peeled his gaze away from his new audience and shot a glance at Ernest. Whatever light their brief time together had sparked, it was gone now. Ernest looked afraid again, and the warmth of his gaze chilled as he stared at the keys. Jascha resumed playing. When he finished one nocturne, he moved onto another. They were like his childhood etudes: Unfamiliar until he started playing the notes.

        Jascha was vaguely aware that Henry and Victor whispered to one another from where they watched, but he startled as Ernest stiffened abruptly at the mention of his name. Jascha stopped playing, and looked to Ernest as he stood. Ernest shot a look; fear mixed with anger, perhaps; at Victor before turning to Jascha.

        “I’m gonna go out. For a run,” he said quietly.

        “No,” Jascha said quickly, thoughtlessly. “No way.” Ernest started to walk away.

        “Ernest, wait,” Henry said gently, catching his wrist lightly.

        “Don’t touch me!” Ernest flinched violently away from Henry’s hand, shocking both of them. Jascha stood quickly, watching as Ernest and Henry stared at each other in stunned silence. Victor looked at Ernest the way a shrike might watch its prey. “I-I’m sorry,” Ernest said softly, breaking the quiet. “I need to go.” Jascha trailed him as he left the room. Alphonse must have heard the scene, because he stood in the main lobby-ish area of the house.

        “What’s going on?” He asked. Jascha watched Ernest drag a smile out of somewhere.

        “Nothing,” Ernest said brightly. “I’m just gonna try going for a jog. It’s been awhile since I last got any exercise.”

        Alphonse raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been sick. Is this a good idea?”   
        “Yup.” Ernest said without pause. “I can walk if I get tired.” Jascha looked at Alphonse, mentally begging him to force his son to stay inside. But Ernest was a varsity athlete. And Alphonse hadn’t seen what Jascha had seen of his health.

        “Bring your phone,” Alphonse said after a pause. “And remember to stretch.”

        “No prob,” Ernest nodded, heading for the stairs. Jascha followed him, waiting until they were safely out of earshot to speak.

        “Ernest,” Jascha whispered as they came to his room. Ernest unlocked his door, but didn’t look at Jascha. “Ernest!”

        “I need to be alone,” Ernest snapped back, startling Jascha. As soon as he saw this, Ernest’s gaze softened and he sighed. “I-I’m so sorry, Jascha. I didn’t mean to snap.”

         Jascha shifted but didn’t relax. “You aren’t really going to run, are you?”

        “I need exercise. It’s how I handle being home.” Ernest said gently. “I can’t be around Victor. Not today. I thought he’d be at therapy, but I guess not.”

        Jascha nodded slowly. “Can I come with you?” If Ernest had to make horrible decisions in order to avoid his brother, he wanted to be there. That way, at the very least, he could carry Ernest home if he needed to. Ernest gave him a pained expression.

        “Didn’t you hear what Victor said?” Ernest asked quietly.

        “I was playing the piano,” Jascha felt like an idiot. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

        “He was asking Henry why I look like shit,” Ernest whispered. “And other things.”

        “Like what?” Jascha also whispered, though they were the only ones on this floor.

        “I’ll explain later,” Ernest sighed. “But he used to call one of my childhood friends my ‘boyfriend,’ and he was asking Henry if you were my new one. It’s...probably bad that I reacted like I did. I just, like, really thought I was gonna panic if I stayed in that room.”

        Jascha did some mental math. Henry was probably sleeping with Victor, so it didn’t make sense that Victor would make homophobic jokes. However, Victor was also a malicious, cruel, manipulative, arrogant little bastard. Logic might not apply. “Why can’t you just stay in your room instead? I’ll stay with you.” Ernest shook his head sadly.

        “If Victor caught you in my room with me, alone, he’d…” Ernest’s words caught in his throat. “He’d have ammo. He’s a gun, and he’s always just waiting for someone to give him bullets. If we’re alone together, or, like, cuddle and shit- even lean on each other- he can use it to torture both of us. Or worse, out me to Dad.”

        “But Victor’s screwing Henry!” Jascha couldn’t figure this out. None of it made any sense. “Why would he out you?”

        “Shh!” White-hot panic flashed across Ernest’s eyes. “Please, please be quiet.”

        “Okay. I’m sorry.” Jascha whispered.

         “Victor would probably condone everything that’s happened to us,” Ernest said frigidly as he pulled on his sneakers.

        “That’s insane,” Jascha whispered. “Not even he could. That would be evil.”

        Ernest finished getting his sneakers on and started doing his stretches. They were careful to leave the door to his room open, and Jascha stood a solid three feet away from him. Ernest’s face was broken and crestfallen, and his eyes bore into the middle distance as he stretched. “Victor has never once wanted me around. I don’t know where the line is for him.”

        Jascha shook his head. “Henry wouldn’t hang out with someone evil.”

        Ernest looked up at him. “Victor is nice to Henry. Henry has never been on his hit list.”

        Jascha shifted on his feet. This was already going so much worse than he’d expected, and he had very low standards. “Will you at least let me come with you on the run?” He finally asked. There was only so much he could do.

        “I wish I could say yes,” Ernest stood as he finished his last set of stretches. “But Victor-”

        “Might use it against you. Okay.” Jascha clenched his jaw. He seriously considered going downstairs and beating some sense and logic into Victor’s skull. He could use it. “Please don’t be out long. Or run hard. Call me if you need me to find you.”

        Ernest patted his arm chastely, but Jascha knew it was meant to take the place of a kiss. “I’ll be okay, Jascha. I’ll call you if I need help.”

        “Please eat a granola bar before you go,” Jascha added quickly. “And drink some water.”

        Warmth returned to Ernest’s gaze, and his smile made a faint appearance. “You sound like my dad,” he said gently.

        “I’m coming down with you. You can run after I’ve seen you eat something.” Jascha left the room with him and followed him back to the kitchen.

        Alphonse and William sat in the dining room, and paid little notice to them. Henry and Victor weren’t to be seen. As promised, Ernest ate a protein bar and drank a glass of water. Jascha relaxed a tiny bit as he did. He smiled despite his near-crushing anxiety when Ernest squeezed his hand. They were pretty well isolated in the kitchen, and Jascha was reassured by the familiar gesture. Slightly.

        After Ernest left, Jascha returned to the piano room. He was surprised when Henry was still there, sitting miserably in one of the armchairs. Jascha sat on the piano bench facing him. He had no idea what to say. He was glad when Henry spoke first.

        “Did he go?” Henry asked quietly.

        “Yeah,” Jascha sighed, “I tried to tell him not to.”

        Henry shook his head sadly. “I’m not surprised. This kind of thing goes back a long time.” Henry gave him a weak smile. “How are you?”

        Jascha blinked.  _ Terrible _ , he wanted to say. “I’m okay.”

        Henry raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

        Jascha took a deep breath and patted the piano. “I have access to a piano. I’m okay.” This was a pathetic excuse for a lie. He knew it. But he couldn’t risk actually confiding in Henry, because Henry slept with Victor and clearly had impaired judgment. “Where’s Victor?”

        “He went back upstairs. To shower, I think.” Henry said tentatively.

        Jascha nodded. It had been ten minutes now since Ernest left. “What are you going to do today?” He asked, grasping at his list of small talk questions.

        Henry shrugged. “Read, probably. Maybe take a walk or a nap. A lot depends on what Victor wants to do.” Henry smiled at him. “Are you going to play more?”

        Jascha chewed the inside of his cheek. He was rapidly running out of piano pieces he actually knew. “Maybe a little. I don’t know many piano pieces.”

        “Do you want to watch TV?” Henry asked. Jascha looked up, surprised by the question.

        “Now?” Jascha asked, dumbfounded.

        “Yeah,” Henry said, relaxing a bit. “Victor takes long showers. When he showers. We have some time, and the winter Olympics are on. Want to see if there’s any figure skating?”

        “Sure,” Jascha said hesitantly. He liked figure skating. It was like danger ballet.

        Henry guided him to the small TV room and scrolled the channels until they found the Olympics. To Henry’s joy, the figure skating was on. Jascha had no idea what was going on, but he did recognize some of the pieces the skaters chose to skate to.

        They watched maybe twenty minutes of skating. It was nice. He liked the paired skating routines, though he was constantly worried someone would get cut. He zoned out a bit, nodding when Henry said things about the skaters. They both jumped when his phone rang.

        “Hello?” Jascha asked.

        “Jascha,” Ernest’s voice was strained.

        “Yes, what’s up? Are you okay?” Jascha sat up straighter. He did his best to ignore Henry’s nervous stare.

        “I don’t feel so good,” Ernest sounded tired. Scared, too. “Can you pick me up?”

        “Yes,” Jascha said quickly. “Where are your keys?”

        “Uh,” Ernest said hesitantly, “in my room. But my room key is with me.” There was silence on the line. “I’ll just walk back.”

        “What?” Jascha couldn’t keep his tone even anymore. “Where are you? I’ll walk back with you.” Henry was asking him what was wrong. Jascha couldn’t handle two conversations.

        “Don’t,” Ernest said tensely. “I’m okay. Really.”

        “Please let me come walk with you,” Jascha said quickly. His heart felt like it might burst as the panic rose. “Please.”

        “Victor would ask-“

        “I don’t care about Victor!” Jascha didn’t quite yell, but he wasn’t quiet. “Please, just tell me where you are so I can walk with you.”

        There was quiet for a moment. “I’ll call Lizzie,” Ernest said stiffly. “I promise I’ll be there soon.”

        “Ernest, please-“ Jascha stooped as the connection was lost. He closed his phone robotically, and buried his face in his hands. This was the worst feeling, he decided. Being unable to help and being alone in a house full of strangers.

        He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Jascha? What’s wrong?” Henry asked softly.

        Jascha shook his head and didn’t speak. It was too much.

        “Clerval! What are you-“ it was Victor’s voice, jovial at first.  “What are you doing? Why are you touching Jascha?” His tone was cold and almost jealous.

        “Victor…” Henry started, but Jascha stood up. He couldn’t be here. Fear was peeling at his insides and all he wanted to do was run outside and wander until he could bring Ernest home. Back to Justine and Lizzie’s, or the hotel. Not here, where there were questions and cruelty. He’d wait for Ernest in the piano room, the only place in this house where he felt even remotely safe. He left before he could hear what Henry said, shoving past Victor. He found the piano, beautifully innocent in light of whatever awful things Victor could do that would make Ernest so afraid to ask for help or be seen with him. He played the nocturnes again. They were all that kept him from screaming.

 


	31. Darkness Before Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry finds Ernest. Victor finds the edge. Jascha tells all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! We are officially in the second half (yikes!!)!! As always, please reach out!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Graphic depictions of violence, psychotic break, internalized/garden variety homophobia, panic attacks, sibling abuse, emotional abuse.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry.

 “What the hell is your problem?” Henry pulled away from Victor’s grasp. “You’ve been acting weird all day.”

        “Henry I,” Victor tried to reach out again, but Henry wasn't having it.

        “Don’t. Just don’t do this. If you can’t handle Jascha, then don’t talk to him. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to oblige.”

        “But Henry I--”

        “Just don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Henry paused and ran his hand through his hair. “Since when do you call me Clerval?”

        “I just…”

        “You only do it when you’re about to go off the rails, so please, please for my sake, have a little bit of self-awareness,” Henry snapped. He felt guilt rising in his throat. He hated lecturing Victor like this. “It’s hard enough for Ernest and Jascha to be here anyway. You have to accept that not everything’s about you.”

        “Clerval…”

        Something inside of Henry’s chest broke. “I’m going on a walk. Don’t come looking for me.”

        “But you don’t have a phone. What if something happens?” Did Victor seem afraid? Maybe. It was hard to tell whether he was trying to be caring or controlling.

        “Doesn’t matter. I know the way.” Henry didn’t mean to slam the door, but he did anyway. Fuck Victor. Fuck his egotism. Fuck.

        This was a mistake and Henry knew it too, the second he stepped out of the house. What was he doing? Leaving Victor alone with Jascha. That was a nightmare waiting to happen, but he just couldn’t deal with it. Not now.

        The cold was punishment enough for him. It burned at his eyes and ears making him wish he were level headed enough to remember essentials like a hat, a scarf, or a thick jacket. But alas, he was far more reckless than he seemed.

        It wasn’t quite dark yet, but the last purple tendrils of twilight still clung to the horizon. The trees stood in tidy lines and rows perfectly marked into a grid. Someday, Henry supposed, they would grow big enough to fill out the awkward spaces between the trunks, but it hadn’t happened yet. The ground was frozen and cracked under his footsteps like broken bone.

        What was he supposed to do? He loved Victor with all his heart. He knew he did. But why? He would never put up with this bullshit if it were anyone else. Never in a million years, and yet he knew he loved Victor. He knew. He knew that Victor could be a better person. He had it in him. Empathy is a learned trait and he was practicing. He was getting better, and now this. What was this? A relapse? A return to reality? He didn’t know.

        Clerval. Since when did Victor call Henry Clerval? There were bursts of it here and there when he couldn’t have the energy to deal with things like emotions or showering, but never when he was otherwise fine. Henry saw him have feelings. He felt them last night, unless it wasn’t real. What if Victor just played the part like he thought Henry needed him to? What was it then? A lie, a facade, or neither?

        Clerval. He wished he could scrub those letters from his name with steel wool. Neither ink, nor bond, nor the smell of blood would remain. The fact of the matter remained, though, Henry Lucien was not sufficient enough for legal forms. Maybe someday he might be able to take...no. It was bad to think about that. Not until...well...not until everything changed.

        God, he couldn’t even take a self-care walk without thinking about Victor and their future. It was a little pathetic, if he were being honest. Everything was passed through the lens of Victor.  What will he think? What will he do? How could Henry mitigate the damages? He just wanted, more than anything, to be able to comfort his friends without it being a big deal.

        Jascha was his friend, at least, he was pretty sure. He could be a bit difficult to read. He should be able to touch his friends, on the shoulder no less, and not have to worry that Victor’s going to go off.

        So he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t worry. If Victor can’t handle it, then he can’t handle it. It was normal and healthy to have friends and to be close to those friends. That’s not something that Victor had the right to take away, even if he was pathologically insecure. Now he would learn how to cope. Simple as that.

        Henry took a deep breath and watched his breath curl into the air like dragon’s smoke. His rib didn’t really hurt that much anymore. It didn’t feel good, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a start. If his bones and muscles could heal then so could the rest of him. One by one, tiny snowflakes fell and stuck to his glasses for a second before melting.

        At one point, he and Victor celebrated the first snowfall with hot chocolate and wintery movies, but that was a long time ago. That was before; before Caroline died, before Henry was in danger. It was before everything. Maybe one day they would again. Maybe.

        Henry let the ice fall on his face and he relished in the pinpricks of pain. God, he was fucked. His fingers were bright red and ached so much he could barely feel them anymore. It felt like he could crack his ears clean off his body, but still he kept walking away from the house.

        Darkness had settled over the forest and Henry made his way using only the light of the moon. He wasn’t really going anywhere specific, he just needed to go and keep going until he freed himself from his anxiety through the pain in his quads. The air seemed milky and quiet, far too quiet for being outdoors. There was something shuffling and sniffling behind him some way away and it set Henry on edge. For all his years wandering theses woods, he had never actually seen anything bigger than a squirrel. He crossed his arms his arms in front of his chest and began to sing, first in Greek, then in English.

        "Ὅσον ζῇς, φαίνου,

        μηδὲν ὅλως σὺ λυποῦ·

        πρὸς ὀλίγον ἐστὶ τὸ ζῆν,

        τὸ τέλος ὁ xρόνος ἀπαιτεῖ.

 

        While you live, shine on

        Have no grief at all

        We are here until we are gone

        And time demands to be paid

 

        “You know, it’s creepy to be singing alone in a forest. People are going to think you’re possessed or something,”

        “Oh my god, Ernest,” Henry said as he was snapped out of his internal monologue. “Are you okay? Jascha seemed really worried about you.” Ernest turned away and was clearly trying to hide his face.

        “It’s just...I’m fine. I told him not to come looking for me.” Ernest was definitely crying.

        “Oh, I wasn’t looking for you,” as soon as Henry said it, he felt a wave of guilt. He should have been looking for him. “I uhh...I just needed… you know… to get away from Victor,” he sighed. “I just assumed you wanted to be alone. I’m sorry. I should have been looking.”

        “No it’s fine. I wanted to be alone and now I’m scared and I...I don’t actually know how to get back the house.” Henry had never seen someone as abjectly miserable in his entire life.

        “Well, it’s a good thing I found you then, huh,” he tried to flash a smile, but it was wholly unconvincing.  

        “Since when do you need to escape Victor? I thought you two were basically attached at the hip.” Ernest rubbed at his eyes with his bare forearm.

        “Ernest...it’s snowing…” Henry started to say.

        “It’s fine, I don’t need…”

        “Please take my jacket. At least I’m wearing long sleeves. You’re going to get sick.” Henry tried hard not to sound like a nagging mother, but he was genuinely worried. After everything that happened, he needed to take care of himself.

        “I’m already sick. It’s fine.”

        Henry furrowed his brow and threw the jacket over Ernest’s shoulders, careful not to actually touch him. “Better?” he asked.

        Ernest pulled the collar up to cover his ears. “Yeah, actually. Thanks.” There were a few minutes of tense silence. A thin layer of ice had stated to build up on the ground and it soaked through Henry’s canvas shoes. “You kinda ignored my question,” Ernest said.

        “He’s being a bitch because he doesn’t know how to cope with Jascha,” Henry explained.

        “Does Jascha need coping with?” Ernest asked. “He doesn’t do anything to anyone. Why is he so intent on taking away the one person that makes me happy?” His pitch started to rise until he was yelling.

        Oh. He didn’t know that technically Jascha was a walking corpse. More specifically, he was a walking corpse of Victor’s creation. “He’s doing the thing where he starts to sabotage everyone if he’s not the center of attention.”

        “So nothing’s changed,” Ernest’s eyes were set square ahead.

        “I...I really thought he was getting better.” Henry could not cry now, even if he really wanted to. No, he was supposed to be helping Ernest get home.

        “He’s not going to and it’s not your fault.” He stopped walking and turned to face Henry.

        “What?”

        “He’s not going to change unless something catastrophic happens.”

        “But something catastrophic--”

        “Has already happened,” Ernest finished. “He’s not going to get better, Henry, even though you really want him to.” Ernest placed his hand on his shoulder. It was barely a touch, but it was there.

        “But he could--”

        “Henry. You know me. You know how I am with people. If I think he’s lost…” His eyes were filled with sadness.

        “I can’t…” Henry stumbled for words. “I can’t believe that. I thought--”

        “I don’t really want to go back to the house. If he treats you so horribly, how do you think he’s going to treat me?” Ernest started walking again.

        “He doesn’t treat me horribly,” Henry tried to argue.

        “Open your eyes, man,” annoyance tinted Ernest’s voice. “You’re one of the most caring, most empathetic people I know and he treats you like shit. How on earth he can look at you and think he can drag you around like some sort of show dog is completely beyond me. He’s a disgrace and I think you know it.” Ernest’s tone had pitched to yelling again. There was nothing Henry could say to that so he just walked in silence.

        The cold was starting to seriously hurt his face and ribs. He needed to stop walking and curl up to sleep in the snow. It was quiet and cool and only Ernest would be able to find him. He would have felt sick or hurt are anything really, but all he felt was cold.

        “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you,” Ernest whispered. “I’m angry at Victor, not at you.”

        “It’s fine…” Henry said, resting his chin against his chest and keeping his eyes to the ground. “Yeah… it’s fine.”

        It wasn’t really fine at all. What would he do? Crawl right back into Victor’s bed. He had no where else to go and nothing else to do. There was just Victor and a thesis he still did not have the materials to properly write.

        “Hey, next time Victor’s away, would you and Jascha want to hang?” he asked. There was only one way to give himself something to do.

        “Hang?” Ernest asked, cocking his head. “What do you mean?”

        “I mean something fun. I don’t know, like laser tag. We could bring William with us too.” Henry sighed. “It would be fun and I want to get closer to Jascha.” He shrugged. “I’m also dying to get out of this god-forsaken house.”

        “Yeah, sure. I’ll have to ask Jascha, but I’m game.”

        Henry smiled, a real one this time. “Great! I’ll ask William in the morning.”

        “Great.”

        They finally reached the house and every part of Henry’s skin burned. He could peel it all off and it wouldn’t be this painful. For a moment, Henry considered sleeping on the couch downstairs, but that would freak out Alphonse and god knows he doesn’t need more stress in his life.

        He hauled himself upstairs and crawled into Victor’s bed like the dog he was. Henry didn’t dare touch him as he curled onto his side as cold as a corpse.

 

* * *

 

        When Clerval snapped, it felt like Victor was snapping too. Like every rib in his chest, every part of his brain, every fiber of his being was intent on curling in on itself and dying, like his stomach was going to rip itself to shreds of thin paper and acid, like he was going to combust right then and there and there was nothing he could do but let it happen. He felt like he was actually going to die this time.

        Then he didn’t.

        Victor raised a hand to his chest and patted it as if to confirm its continued stability. That was weird. He felt fine. Honestly, he felt better than fine. He felt great! Better than he had in months, better than he’d felt since maybe September. No, actually, even more so than then because his body was no longer actively trying to shut his organs down.

        Victor glanced to the front door. Clerval would be back. He always was. It was the one constant in life, Clerval as the man at his back, the dog at his heels. Victor didn’t have to worry about him. The man hadn’t even taken a winter jacket and when the cold drove him back home, Victor could make quick work of begging his forgiveness once more.

        In the meantime, he had bigger fish to fry.

        Victor straightened his collar and ran a hand through his still damp hair, frowning at the length of it. He eyed the music room. Well, what luck. They’d left Jascha all alone. What an ungracious host Ernest was.

        He strode into the room, not bothering to linger in the doorway as he might have before but planting himself firmly behind Jascha. The experiment, seeing his presence immediately, halted in his rendition of Chopin or Mozart or whatever he was playing, but refused to turn around.

        Victor smiled charmingly. “No need to stop.” He said as he wandered over to the couch, scooping up a book at random from the tea table. Walt Whitman poetry. He threw it aside and picked up the book under it.  The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  He cracked it open and scanned a random page, noting absently that Jascha still wasn’t playing. Victor glanced up to see the man had stood from his place on the bench and was now gathering up his discarded sweatshirt, apparently on his way to a hasty escape.

        Victor frowned. “What? Not keen to spend some time with good ol’ dad here?”

        “You’re not my dad.” Jascha said pointedly. He glowered at Victor. “I’m going upstairs. Don’t follow me.”

        “Sure.” Victor said. “I’ll just wait down here for Ernest then. I’m sure he’ll be back any minute and I’ve got some things I want to talk to him about before dinner.”

        Jascha halted in place. As Victor watched with an amused smile, the experiment seemed to struggle through the best course of action. Finally, he turned his jagged gaze back to Victor. “Why are you doing this?” He asked, exhaustion evident in his voice.

        “Doing what? Specify, Jascha, I’m not a mindreader.”

        “Torturing Ernest. What do you gain?”

        Victor considered the question. It would be simple enough to give his experiment an excuse or brush him off, but, then again, what did have to lose here? “Well, I suppose I don’t really  gain  anything. It’s not like Ernest is a threat to me. After all, I already have Clerval and Elizabeth and soon enough I’ll be back to being dad’s favorite too. All he has is you and, uh,” Victor cast a disappointed look over Jascha’s designer button down and overly fluffed hair, “he’s made quick work of ruining you already.”

        He stood. Stretched. Made a show of taking a step towards Jascha, who did not step back. “I guess,” Victor smiled sweetly, “at this point, I’m just having too much fun with it to stop.”

        “You’re a monster.” Jascha growled.

        “Hey, man, which one of us is literally built out of spare parts?” Victor chuckled. “You want to know more about that by the way? I’ve got all of it memorized.”

        For all his confidence, Jascha was pathetically easy to read and Victor had studied him enough to be able to do it without conscious thought. Twitching eye, clenched fists, one foot slightly forward, hand still tight on his jacket. The experiment wanted to run, but he wouldn’t. No, he was too devoted to Victor’s dear, sweet, innocent brother to ever consider abandoning him to the horror that was the mad scientist Victor.

        With another step, Victor was close enough to touch Jascha. “This,” he grabbed Jascha’s hair, half relishing the way the other flinched violently back, “I got off of a model, poor gal by the name of Miranda who died after her boyfriend cracked a bottle over her head. Quite horrible, really. They never did manage to convict him for it.”

        Jascha swallowed hard, one hand ghosting over his crown, almost all hints of bravado gone.

        “And this,” Victor released the hair slowly, letting his hand sink down to Jascha’s chest, “lovely strong heart used to be the property of a Mr. Lyman Williams. You should be quite proud of it, it managed to survive through three failed marriages and the birth of nine unwanted children. And, before you ask, no he wasn’t old. He managed to accomplish all that in the span of three years before his best friend shot him in a Seven Eleven parking lot at the age of twenty-five.”

        Victor didn’t withdraw his hand despite the fact that he could feel his experiment’s heartbeat growing frantic and stuttering beneath his thin fingers. “I would have used your heart for the job,” he locked eyes with Jascha’s bright blue ones, “but with all the stress of the accident, it didn’t quite hold out the way I wanted. Plus, your father’s side has a history of heart disease.”

        “How do you know that?” Jascha’s voice had dropped to whisper, whether out of fear or a desire not to be heard by William or Alphonse, Victor couldn’t tell. He personally didn’t give much of a damn who heard him. Everyone in the house thought he was crazy anyways.

        “I made you, Jascha.” Victor said lazily. “You really think I didn’t do my research?” He circled behind the larger man, forcing him to turn to keep his eyes on him. “Father’s family is from Russia, but your grandmother is Lithuanian. You speak both languages, but have been taught to favor the Russian because it’s all your father spoke to you in. I know all about your time at Juilliard, your concerts, your family visits, your cousins and uncles and neighbors. Hell, I could probably guess at the first person you slept with if you asked me to.” He shot the experiment a lewd grin. “She was pretty, wasn’t she?”

        “Stop it.” Jascha commanded him, fear now palpable in the quiver of his hands. “Stop it now or-”

        “Or what?” Victor stopped. “You’ll crack my skull? Maybe a few ribs like you did to that Mason kid?”

        “How did you-”

        “I’m a genius.” Victor replied shortly. “And you’re not that slick.”

        “Okay, that’s enough. I’m going upstairs.” Jascha gripped his coat more firmly and started towards the door.

        Victor watched him go with interest. He really did care about Ernest, huh? Pathetic. “You’re mother was quite distraught when she heard, you know.”

        Jascha stopped. Screwed his eyes shut.

        “She was hysterical when they couldn’t find the body. Your body.” Victor paced up behind Jascha once more. “Being a part time technician only, I technically didn’t have to be there when they told her you’d been stolen, but I was curious to see what was going to come of it. Oh, you should have heard her. She screamed; screamed for you. It was like she was watching you die all over again. And when they told her that the legs had been left behind…”

        Victor saw the hands before he felt them, twining into the front of his shirt and pinning him back against the wall with superhuman ease. With stuttering breath, he felt his feet leave the ground. He peered down into Jascha’s contorted face with mild interest. “Ah. So perhaps this is something that’s changed then. I don’t think Jascha Simonis would ever go so far as to physically threaten a man. But then again, you’re not quite Jascha Simonis, are you?”

        “You don’t know anything about me.” Jascha said through gritted teeth.

        Victor was lifted higher, the hands tightening in his shirt, and he wondered how far he could push before Jascha would resort to striking skin. “Not quite Jascha Simonis, not quite Jascha the frat boy, not even a proper experiment.” Victor grinned. “A failure all around, a thing nobody wants or needs. A certifiable freakshow. What a shame, what a shame. Maybe that’s why Ernest likes you so much. He always was attracted to broken things. Tell me, does your boyfriend know that no matter how deep he gags on your dick, he’ll never know his way around it the way I do?”

        A fist connected with the side of Victor’s face and he tasted blood. Released from the Jascha’s vice hold, he staggered back against the music room wall, scrambling to keep himself upright on violently shaking legs. As Jascha backed away, seething with visible fury, Victor touched a gentle hand to his busted lip. When he drew it away, red stained the pale surface, making his heart leap in excitement.

        He aimed a bloody grin back at Jascha. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I hit a nerve?”

        “Don’t you ever talk about him like that!” Jascha yelled. “Don’t you ever!”

        Victor hesitated, still propped against the wall raggedly. He waited for movement, for the telltale sounds of his father’s heavy footfalls or William’s still high pitched voice, but there was was nothing. “Well would you look at that? Looks like nobody's home, after all.” Victor breathed.

        Jascha stared at him hard. “Good. Then I don’t have to worry about anyone interrupting.” Another fist landed squarely in Victor’s solar plexus, setting off a chain of burning through the pit of his chest, followed quickly by a blow to the nose. Something loud and unpleasantly wet cracked in Victor’s ears and he winced back more from the sound than the cascade of pain which erupted. Victor fell to his knees, blinking tears from his eyes as wave after wave of nausea and fogginess rolled through him. He squeezed his eyes shut only to be hauled to his feet once more by the experiment’s rough hands.

        “Hardly the hands of a violinist, huh?” Victor nearly choked on the blood in his throat as he tried to speak.

        “Just stop talking.”

        “How come? Can’t stand the sweet sounds of my melodious voice?” Victor spat, watching with satisfaction as a glob of gore spilled down his chin to land on Jascha’s hands.

        Jascha searched his face with intensity before drawing back from it. “You’re...you’re fucking getting off on this, aren’t you?”

        “On seeing the perfect little Jascha Simonis, child prodigy, golden boy, Ernest’s only true friend, losing his fucking shit? Becoming the monster I made him to be?” Victor leered at him. “You bet your ass I am.”

        “You’re insane.”

        “And you’re just like me. No matter how much you want to deny it, Jascha Simonis is dead. You are nothing more than a corpse of my creation. How can you be sure I haven’t tampered with your brain? How can you know that I haven’t altered memories or prodded just the right places to make you different? Make you just as batshit as I am?”

        “You…” Jascha’s voice drew higher. Uncertain. “You can’t do that.”

        “Are you a doctor?”

        “No. And neither are you.”

        Victor reached up a shaky hand, grabbing Jascha by the chin and forcing the other to meet his eyes. “I brought you back from the dead, creature. Are you really going to question what I’m capable of?”

        Terror reflected back at him through beautiful blue. The hands that had been supporting him dropped away suddenly as Jascha backed up. By the time Victor managed to lift his head from its place dropped against his screaming chest, the experiment was gone. He smiled to himself in absent satisfaction.

        Lacking the continuous rush of adrenaline, Victor found his body screaming and bent. Hauling himself to his feet was like dragging his limbs through metal spikes and, as he moved, blood gushed from his broken nose like a garden hose. He didn’t bother to clean up the mess in the music room. No amount of scrubbing could get blood out from the cracks of hardwood, after all. That he knew from experience. Wherever his father and brother had gone, they’d just have to deal with a bit of a nasty shock when they returned.

        It took some painful maneuvering to crawl up the stairs and make it to his room. As he approached the door, a roll of sickness forced him to lean his body weight against it, leaving a bloody handprint across the pale wood. He giggled to himself. “Guess I’m still a bit more sick than I realized.”

        While struggling to turn the doorknob, his sleeve caught on the edges of the construction paper which spelled out Henry’s name beneath his own. He ripped it down in irritation. His room was blissfully dark and cool as he entered and he immediately stumbled over to his bed, uncaring of the blood he would no doubt be allowing to soak into the sheets.

        He wasn’t quite sure how long it was that he drifted off before the familiar weight of Clerval joined him in the bed. Though they were barely touching, Victor could feel the patterns of cold radiating off of his lover in waves. As the other drifted off into an uneasy sleep, Victor turned himself in bed and wrapped an arm around Clerval, pressing his sluggishly bleeding face into his soft hair. It would wake him sooner or later, the clumped wetness on his head and in his hair and rolling down his face, but for the time being, Victor was content to lie in silence, listening to the heart Clerval had promised to him beat under his splayed hand.

 

* * *

 

        Jascha needed to leave. He ran back up to the guest room, and locked himself in the small bathroom. He felt an overwhelming wave of nausea, and he only barely bent over the toilet in time. What had he done? Who was he? He’d beaten two men now; not without reason, but with more violence than he’d ever considered himself capable of before. His body heaved with each wave of sickness until there wasn’t even stomach acid left. He gasped for air. He needed to clean up the music room. He couldn’t let anyone see what had happened. How could he explain himself? No one heard what Victor said, and only Henry knew about his...condition. What could he tell Ernest? He would ask. Ernest would worry. Ernest was worried. He could be back already for all Jascha knew. The third floor was so high up that he couldn’t hear anything from below.

        He forced himself off the floor and washed his hands with scalding water, watching Victor’s blood dissolve down the drain. Jascha washed his face, too, looking away from the brilliant, unfamiliar blue eyes that were stuck in his head. He brushed his teeth until he felt clean. Changed shirts. He was lucky that, somehow, no blood landed on his new shirt. He’d remembered to roll up his sleeves before laying into Victor. He changed into a black hoodie- one of Ernest’s- and headed downstairs.

        He found Lysol and filled a bowl with hot water. The blood was still wet, and probably hadn’t sunk into the floor too badly. The wallpaper was patterned, which helped to conceal the slight splatter pattern. Blood. Jascha hadn’t seen this much blood in a long time. Mason’s nose bled, but not like this. He remembered the windshield. The screeching of metal. He felt the dashboard crush into his hips and thighs, the plastic shattering into his flesh. Jascha grit his teeth and let his eyes sting with tears, forcing himself to keep cleaning the mess. He had to dump out the bowl nearly ten times before the water stopped turning deep crimson with each dip of the sponge. He wondered if they had to clean his blood up like this, or whether they let the rainwater wash it out of the pavement. They probably left it in the car when they towed it away. The human body had about five liters of blood in it, and Jascha must have spilled nearly half of that on the New York City asphalt.

        He heard the door open and close, sending fresh panic through his body. He tried to stand, but as he did he felt like his femur snapped under his weight. He buckled back down, cursing in Russian at the pain. He heard feet run towards him.

        “Jascha?” It was Ernest. Jascha heard him run into the room, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up. He’d beaten his brother bloody. Even if Ernest hated him, that was still awful. He leaned over the partially cleaned bloodstain, wracked with pain in his legs.

        “Ernest, don’t come close,” Jascha forced himself to speak. “Please, don’t.” The sobs came when he felt Ernest wrap his arms around him. “Please, just go upstairs.”

        “Jascha, what happened?” Ernest’s voice was high with panic, and his hands were freezing. “Who’s blood is this? Are you hurt?” Ernest forced Jascha to face him, his gaze fraught with fear. Jascha looked away, shaking his head.

        “I’m sorry,” he said weakly, “I’m so sorry”

        “Please, you need to tell me what happened,” Ernest’s voice was firm. “...It was Victor, wasn’t it?” Jascha felt the sinking pain of guilt, but he nodded. “What did he say?”

        Jascha shook his head. “I can’t--” He said. He felt pathetic. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I-I hurt your brother. I should leave--” Jascha was quickly devolving into fully fledged panic. He felt his breathing quicken, but Ernest held his head against his chest, stroking his hair. He closed his eyes and made himself take shaky breaths.

        “Jascha, you need to tell me what he said,” Ernest whispered. “Please. I know you didn’t do this unprovoked.”

        Jascha clenched his fists. He focused on Ernest’s fingers in his hair. He loved him too much to lie. Not when he asked directly for the truth. “Ernest,” Jascha said into his chest, “He...said awful things about us. About me being ‘your only true friend, because you like broken things.’ He said--” Jascha took a breath. “He talked about you, uh, choking on my--” He couldn’t say it. “He knows what we are. You...need to ask Victor how he knows me.” His voice broke. He was spiraling; talking quick. Ernest pulled away and took his face in his hands.

        “Jascha,” He said gently. “Look at me.” Jascha didn’t want to. He couldn’t. Ernest would see him break down, cry, and be weak. “Please, Jascha.” Jascha looked, meeting Ernest’s worried gaze. His eyes were wet too, and he looked scared.

        “I’m sorry,” Jascha whispered again.

        “Stop.” Ernest pressed their foreheads together. “It’s okay.”

        Jascha shook his head. “No, it’s not,” he cried.

        “It is,” Ernest hugged him tightly. “I love you and it’s okay.”

        Jascha felt the words like a hook in his chest, pulling out whatever final shreds of composure he had and ripping them to shreds. “I’m so, so sorry, Ernest. I’m sorry I’m here, and I’ve made things worse. I-I’m sorry you met me. I shouldn’t be alive; I should be dead. I’ve only ruined your life, and you’ll never be happy again--”

        “He made you think this,” Ernest said coldly. “I’m going to talk to Victor.” Ernest stood and headed for the stairs with an exhausted, stony determination.

        “No!” Jascha forced himself to his feet. He saw with horror that Alphonse and William were coming in, watching Ernest and Jascha run up the stairs with confused and panicked expressions.

        Ernest beat Jascha to Victor’s room, and he watched him throw open the door. Jascha made it to the doorway in time to see Henry sobbing by the bed, cleaning Victor’s face with a damp towel. Henry looked up in panic when Victor smiled at Ernest and Jascha as they entered.

        “I thought you didn’t speak to me, Ernest,” Victor said hoarsely. Ernest walked over to the bed, looking pale at the blood and gore. “Violence isn’t your thing. Aren’t you supposed to faint or something?”

        “You are such a hypocritical little psycho,” Ernest hissed. Jascha braced himself to intervene if Victor or Henry tried to hurt him. Ernest bent down so that he was eye-level with Victor. “So, what? You can be in love with Henry, but when I like a guy I’m ‘gagging on his dick’? Is that it?  When you do it, it’s okay, but I’m a fag? Is that how you feel about Henry, too? What about Lizzie and Justine? Are we all just sick to you?”

        Henry stopped crying and looked at Victor and Ernest with confusion. “What?”

        “How do you know Jascha?” Ernest snapped at Victor. “How does Henry know Jascha?”

        Victor managed a choked laugh. “You mean he didn’t tell you?” He asked innocently. “You haven’t had-” he coughed, bringing up blood. “-little heart to hearts like adolescent girls? Isn’t that you M.O. with your little boyfriends?”

        “Victor--” Henry started. Ernest didn’t let him finish.

        “Tell me what’s going on!” Ernest yelled. Jascha flinched as he felt Alphonse appear beside him, blocking William from seeing into the room.

        “Jascha, what’s going on?” Alphonse asked. Jascha buried his face in his hands. He couldn’t talk. Not now. Not ever. He was just going to slink quietly to the kitchen, grab a knife, go in the woods and slit his wrists. Fix everything. He’d never had ideations before, but this was enough. He didn’t ask for any of this. Not life; not Ernest nor Henry. Certainly not Victor. He was pulled out of his head by Victor’s hacking laugh.

        “You should thank me, Ernest!” He said. “I brought Jascha back from the dead! I’m sure he told you about the accident, didn’t he? You patched up his wrists, at least, right?”

        Ernest backed up, confusion and disgust clear on his face. “He said he was in a car accident,” he mumbled. “He has bad dreams about it sometimes.”

        Alphonse pushed past Jascha. “Victor! Ernest! Stop this!” He yelled. He pulled Ernest back, looking desperately between him and his brother. “What is going on here?”

        “Ask Ernest about the frat, Dad,” Victor said in a low growl. “Not the fire. Before that.”

        Alphonse looked at Ernest, who staggered backwards and looked at Henry with betrayal. “Did--Lizzie told you?!” He yelled, glancing from Victor to Henry. “And you. You told  him ?!” He was shrieking now. Jascha looked to William, who was frozen in place beside him. He felt awful. This was all his fault.

        Henry held up his hands cautiously, looking at Ernest with a mix of pain and fear. “Ernest, I promise I didn’t--”

        “He didn’t have to tell me,” Victor said poisonously. “Anyone could tell something happened. I just happened to guess correctly, and look! You just confirmed it.” Victor smirked. “Anyway, there’s only so many things Liz and Henry would light a house on fire for. So which guy was it? Lin’s boyfriend? Some football guy? Was it--” Ernest slapped him across the face before Alphonse could catch his hand. Ernest was hyperventilating, angry tears streaming down his face. Jascha stood up straighter.

        “Ernest!” Alphonse yelled. Ernest buckled to the floor, hand over his mouth as if he were going to be sick. Alphonse looked between his two sons. Victor was bleeding but smiling with sardonic satisfaction. Ernest was sobbing and trying desperately not to throw up on the floor. He bent down by Ernest. “Ernest, what is going on? What is Victor talking about? Why is your brother bleeding?”

        Ernest shook his head. “I can’t tell you,” he said miserably. “Please. Just let me go.”

        “Ernest, I need to know what’s going on.” Alphonse said firmly. He tried to put a hand on Ernest’s shoulder, but pulled his hand back as Ernest flinched away from his touch. “What happened?” Ernest curled in on himself, shaking his head again. As if by instinct, Jascha walked over and bent down beside him.

        “See, Dad? You can’t fool me now,” Victor said bitterly. “I’m bleeding, and you still choose Ernest over me.”

        Alphonse looked between his kids again, and to Henry, who was frozen in place. He sighed. “Victor, I’m going to drive you to the hospital.”

        “What?!” Victor yelled. “No! No way! You can’t just ship me off because you don’t want to deal with me!” He, too, was sobbing now.

        “Victor! It’s for your nose!” Alphonse raised his voice. “I’m not going to leave you there,” he said firmly. “Though we will be speaking to Dr. Konig about your treatment on Monday.” As he turned back to Ernest, Jascha saw the full force of the fear, frustration, and concern on Alphonse’s face. He wondered if that was how his dad looked when he died in that ambulance. He forced the thought away. “I’m sorry, Ernest, but I need to take your brother to the hospital. Henry, can you please make sure William is okay after I leave?”

        “Uh, yes,” Henry broke from his catatonic state. Alphonse nodded, and tenderly helped Victor from his bed, cringing as his blood got on his shirt. Victor looked back at Ernest over his shoulder as he left, glaring in crazed rage.

        The three of them sat or stood in horrified shared silence, broken only by Ernest”s soft sobbing. Jascha realized he’d forgotten to breathe and drew in a breath, pulling himself from his fantasy of stabbing himself in the heart with a steak knife. He turned to Ernest.

        “Ernest...” he said gently. Ernest looked up at him with wide, panicked eyes.

        “He didn’t actually bring you back from the dead, right?” His voice was fragile and desperate. Jascha looked away. “Right?!”

        “Jascha is alive now,” Henry whispered. “But…”

        Jascha shook his head, turning to Ernest. He couldn’t lie. Not anymore. “I died in the crash,” he said weakly. “Victor...somehow put me back together. Using other people’s limbs and organs.” He felt the impending agony; the loss of Ernest forever hanging over him like a sword. “I’m sorry. I’m not supposed to be here. I’ll leave.”

        “No,” Ernest said, catching his hand as he started to get up. “Don’t. Please.”

        Jascha considered pulling away. The knife was downstairs. It absolutely wouldn’t be as bad as the accident was. But Ernest was here, and he was holding his hand. His second death, however justifiable, would cause him pain. And that was unacceptable. So he sat back down on the carpet with Ernest, allowing himself to be wrapped tightly in his arms. “What do we do now?” He whispered, looking up at Henry, who slid down the wall until he was sitting beside them.

        “I don’t know,” he said, his voice hollow. “I--I’m so sorry, Ernest.” He looked broken. Ernest pulled away from Jascha and wiped his eyes. He reached out a hand, squeezing Henry’s lightly.

        “This wasn’t your fault,” Ernest said quietly. “He--Victor’s sick. He’s really sick.”

        Henry started to break, his face contorting as the tears came. “I really thought he was getting better...I don’t know what to do. I-I need to check on William.” He stood weakly, and left the room to go find the kid.

        Ernest didn’t let go of Jascha’s hand as they stood, and held it as they walked up to the third floor. They paused by his door. “Can you...” he said hesitantly, looking shyly at Jascha.

        “I’ll stay.” Jascha didn’t want to be alone either. Ernest unlocked the door and pulled both of them inside. He locked the three inside locks before he changed into his pajamas, his movements stiff and lurchy. He was so thin now. Jascha watched in horror as he took off his clothes. To anyone else, he might just look slim, but Jascha knew his body and this wasn’t what it was supposed to be. He got out of his dirty jeans and hoodie and sat on the bed in nothing but his boxers. He cringed as Ernest sat beside him, tracing the vicious, jagged scars that crept up his waist.

        “Did you really die?” He whispered. Jascha closed his eyes. He didn’t want to do this. Ever. But he took Ernest’s hand and held it to his chest.

        “This isn’t my heart,” Jascha said under his breath. “My lungs either. These aren’t my hands. My hair isn’t mine, nor are my legs or arms.” His breath caught in his throat. “These aren’t my eyes.” He leaned his head back, letting go of Ernest’s hand. “Ernest, even my dick didn’t originally belong to me. I was crushed from the hips down. I’m an undead medical horror that your brother made for fun.”

        Ernest was quiet for several minutes, running his hand slowly down Jascha’s chest along the scar. Jascha felt all the pain of the past month strangle him as Ernest rested his hand on his stomach. He opened his eyes and looked at him. Ernest looked thoughtful, but not scared.

        “It’s like organ transplants,” Ernest said slowly. He leaned his head on Jascha’s shoulder. “You aren’t a horror. You’re alive, the same way that people live after a heart transplant.”

        Jascha was taken aback. He just told Ernest that his dick didn’t even belong to him, and he seemed completely unphased. “I’m not me, though.” He whispered. “I...most of my body isn’t mine. I’m revolting. A crime against nature. A scientific impossibility. A nightm-”

        Ernest cut him off with a kiss, and Jascha let himself be pressed down onto the bed. Jascha felt Ernest lift his hand and place it back on his chest, over his heart. “You aren’t revolting. You aren’t a crime. You’re alive. I can feel your heartbeat and the warmth of your skin. Dead people aren’t warm and they don’t have pulses.”

        “You aren’t horrified?” Jascha asked weakly, shifting as Ernest pulled a quilt over the two of them. “I just beat up your brother and told you I’m a dead man.”

        Ernest settled himself against Jascha with his head on his shoulder. He took Jascha’s hand and laced their fingers together, sending comforting warmth through Jascha’s skin.

        “You aren’t dead,” Ernest said softly. “And Victor deserved it.” Jascha wanted to argue, but there really wasn’t much to say. He was alive in the physical sense, for better or worse. His death was now solely a legal matter. And Victor really, really had deserved it for making Ernest miserable.

        “Ernest...” Jascha said softly, turning onto his side so he could see him. Ernest’s eyes watched him with their familiar warmth. Jascha stroked the side of his face lightly, feeling the heat and gentle softness of his skin. Ernest closed his eyes slowly, putting his hand on Jascha’s waist, over one of the jagged crash scars. He drew a shaky breath as he traced it’s path “I’m in love with you, too. I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier.”

        Jascha felt the anger and horror melt from him as Ernest kissed him slowly, sinking his weight against him. It was a release, saying the words. A weight from his chest was lifted and replaced by the softness of Ernest’s lips and the feeling of his body against his own under the safety of the quilt. He inhaled sharply as Ernest lay himself on top of him, wrapping his arms around his neck. Pressed together, Jascha could feel his heart against his own; the rise and fall of their chests with each breath. So close together, there were no secrets and no words needed to describe their shared feelings of fear, anger, grief, affection, arousal, or adoration. They were together, and for that Jascha would be willing to live this strange, agonizing second life.

 


	32. Trauma Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry comforts William. Victor has a chat with his dad. Jascha helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks for all the wonderful comments on the last chapter! Y'all are the best. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of suicidal intent, homophobic/ableist language, descriptions of violence/trauma, panic attack.

        “William?” Henry knocked on the small boy’s door. He couldn’t feel his knuckles touch the wood. For all he knew, he didn’t actually knock, he only thought about it. “William, are you okay?” Words. He needed words. “I’m sorry, William. I’m sorry I couldn’t...” Henry sank to his knees. “I’m sorry, William. I’m sorry.”

        The door opened into his forehead and William’s tear-reddened eyes stared back at him. “Uncle Henry?” he asked, his voice raw from sobbing.

        “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have left them alone,” he had to pull it together, but it felt like someone, Victor, had slashed a slit into his stomach and all his intestines and viscera were about to fall out. “It’s my fault,” he said, taking a deep breath and rising to his feet. “Can you ever forgive me?” It was the responsible thing to do. He could keep it together. He could bind his wounds with leather straps and be the adult he was needed to be. For William.

        He gently grabbed Henry’s hand and pulled him into the room. It was difficult to make his legs move. It felt like they were locked in place with steel bolts and ribbons. He moved like a doll or a puppet, guided on strings of blood.

        “Is Victor going to be okay?” William asked. He used his sleeve to wipe his eyes and nose until Henry handed him a tissue.

        “I...he’ll be fine,” Henry’s voice broke into a high keen. “I just don’t know…” He took a deep breath. He could keep the pain on the inside. For William he would lock it in his ribs to nest around his heart and lungs like a bird. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

        “I’m scared.” William was too young to remember the last time Victor snapped. He was too little to remember the pain and fear and desperation that settled on the house when Victor bled. William reached out and was about to hold Henry’s hand before he pulled back.

        “I know buddy, I’m scared too.” The bird nestled deeper into his chest and tore apart the connective tissue that held his organs together. Henry made the conscious effort to open his stance and William immediately fell into his arms.

        “What if he never gets better? What if we’ve lost him forever?” he sobbed into his chest. Henry wrapped his arms around his trembling shoulders.

        “We’re not going to lose him. He’ll come back.” Henry pressed his nose into William’s hair. “He’s always comes back.”

        “Always?” he asked. Wings beat against his ribs and thrashed into his heart tearing his muscle to ribbons.

        “Always.” Henry didn’t even believe himself. William cried harder into his stomach, his tears seeping through his shirt. His tiny hands were balled into his sides. It was hard to believe that he would be twelve in...how many days? Oh god. He looked so tiny and helpless wrapped in Henry’s bloody arms.

        “Here, let me--” Henry gently pushed William away and folded his glasses on his nightstand. He let him fall against his chest once again. “Better?”

        “Yeah,” William mumbled, his sobbing had somewhat subsided, but he still didn’t want to let go of Henry’s waist. “Why is this happening?”  

        “Victor’s sick and makes a lot of mistakes.” Henry ran his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

        “But why would someone beat him? Why was he laughing? Why does he hate Ernest? Why?” William’s voice pitched into panic. Henry wanted to curl into a ball and shriek. “Why, Henry, Why?” William screamed into his stomach. He rocked him back in forth, whispering into his hair.  The bird tore its way into Henry’s esophagus and tried to crawl its way out his mouth, but he swallowed it down, feathers and all.

        “Sometimes people do things they regret,” he tried to explain. “And sometimes they feel guilty and it’s hard for them to process guilt,” he sighed, “Sometimes people think the only way people will pay attention to them is if they hurt themselves.” It wasn’t a good explanation, so he kept holding William, content to let him be safe in his arms.

        “What if someone hurts you? Or me? Or Ernest? Or Dad?” William squeezed him even tighter.

        “William, I’ve been hurt before and I promise I will never, ever let anyone raise a hand to you, Ernest, or Alphonse. I love you. We love you so much.” Henry felt the tears roll down his face, leaving tracks in Victor’s blood. “You’re going to be safe. Everyone is, even Victor. I know it hurts now and it will probably hurt for a long time, but you always have us and we will always protect you.”

        “I don’t want to be alone,” William sobbed.

        “You’re never alone.”

        “Can you stay with me tonight?” He asked. William pulled away and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I know I’m too old for this, but I’m scared. Uncle Henry, I’m really, really scared.”

        “Of course, bud.” Henry handed him back his glasses. “I don’t want to be alone either. We can get through this. Together.” William gave him a weak smile. “But I should probably shower first. I don’t want to get your stuff all gross.”

        William nodded. “Be back soon?”

        “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Why don’t you pick out something fun for us to read. You know, something normal. It’ll probably help you feel better.” Henry ruffled his hair before leaving the room.

        Without William relying on him, his resolve began to peel away like ancient glass. He chose the bathroom on the third floor, near the guest room. That should be far enough away that William wouldn’t be able to hear him and that was all that mattered right now. As long as he could keep William safe and calm, that’s all that mattered.

        He was on a time limit. This could not last for more than half an hour. After thirty minutes he needed to get up and go to William’s room and read with him. There was no choice. This was the job that Alphonse entrusted him with. It was 3:42 AM. Exactly two hours and thirty-seven minutes since he woke up covered in Victor’s blood. Victor’s blood. He wished it was his own.

        Henry broke into a run and knocked a picture off the wall trying to get to the bathroom in time to wretch into the sink. Victor’s blood was on his face and in his hair and it was his own goddamned fault. There was no happy reunion this time; no triumphant return. No, just the knowledge that Victor thought he was a fucking faggot too. Just like everyone else. God, Henry really was a dog, begging for the affection of someone who really couldn’t understand that he was the whole world.  Was  the whole world. It was a good thing that Henry made friends. He was happier than he had ever been. Was. Now, everything stank of blood and iron.

        After everything, every late night, every panic attack, every hour spent binding wounds, Victor really thought Henry was no better than his dog. And he let himself be treated like this, too. He really, truly had no one to blame but himself. Victor was sick. He had been sick for years. Victor Frankenstein didn’t do love. Not since his mother died. Victor Frankenstein didn’t do compassion or empathy. What was Henry? A rogue experiment to see how many times you could kick someone before they stop coming back? A case study in the effects of trauma on a human’s emotional attachments? A lover? A friend?

        Nothing.

        Henry ran his hand down his face and watched as he smeared Victor’s blood on his lips. Twenty-eight minutes before he returned to William. It was amazing how fast his brain could work when he was panicking. He wet the corner of a towel and started wiping the blood from his face. He needed to scrub and it turned his skin red and raw.

        No, it was worse. Henry knew. He knew that Victor Frankenstein cared and that made it worse. He cared and he did it anyway. What was Henry supposed to be? Happy that he was the only person Victor was ever nice to? Relieved that he wasn’t on the receiving end of his wrath? Well, there wasn’t really anything to be afraid of, now was there?

        Victor Frankenstein was gone. He was replaced by a monster. Someday, his Victor would return from the hospital and they could smile and it would feel like home. They would be able to get their own house somewhere with a garden and a place for Victor’s lab and Henry’s books. They would have beautiful academic careers and children that they loved more than starlight. They could have friends over for dinner and spend late nights watching movies by a fire. But first Victor had to come home.

        And that’s how Henry knew he was sick. How could he still love Victor Frankenstein? How? Henry sunk to the floor and pressed his back against the porcelain tub. He could feel the cold biting through his shirt. Twenty-five minutes.

        What would Victor do to Henry when he didn’t want him anymore? A bullet would do nicely. Or a razor. Or a knife. Something quick and painless. Victor would do it himself and watch the life drain from his eyes, noting with scientific curiosity how the amber light faded to gray.

        No. No, no, no, Victor would never. Henry knew. He had to. Victor was sick. He wasn’t evil. Henry knew. Evil people don’t care when their friends are hurt. Evil people don’t care and Victor cared. Somewhere inside there, he cared.

        Henry turned on the water and let it run through his hair. He left it on freezing cold and watched as the pink water gathered in the tub. That was Victor’s blood.

        It was his fault. He knew he couldn’t be left alone with Jascha. Henry should have made Victor come with him or something. Anything. Anything would have been better than this. If he cared about anyone other than himself he would have seen that Jascha was in danger. He could have done something. He could have stopped it and now Victor’s blood; his lover’s blood; was washing out of his hair. Seventeen minutes.

        Henry keeled over and screamed. How could he live with himself after he put Victor and Jascha in danger? He put everyone in danger. They were better off without him. They would be happier if they couldn’t listen to his insistence that Victor could handle it with outpatient. Alphonse couldn’t handle another child to console. He was a burden. He kept screaming until his throat gave out.

        “Henry? Henry, please let me in,” Jascha pounded on the door.

        It would be so easy, too. There had to be something in here and then the Frankenstein family would know peace. Thirteen minutes.

        “Henry, please!” Jascha’s voice was pitched high with worry.

        “No. No, please. I can’t...I’ll just…” he sounded like a shadow.

        “I’ll get Ernest. He can help…”

        “No!” Henry shrieked. “I’ll hurt him too.”

        “Henry…” Jascha’s voice softened. He pushed himself into a corner. “Are you alright?”

        Henry buried his head in his knees and clamped his hands over his ears. “No. I’m going to do something terrible.” Ten minutes.

        “I need you to open the door for me.” Jascha’s voice was as even as the rain. “I’ll break it down if I have to.”

        Somehow, Henry found it within himself to crawl to the door and let him in. Alphonse didn’t need to add property damage to his ever growing list of woes.

        “Henry--”

        “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop him.” Henry leaned his head against the tile wall, his wet hair dripping into his eyes.

        “It’s not your fault, Henry. It’s really not. There’s nothing you could have done.” Jascha reached out but Henry curled tighter into the corner. “I’m sorry I hurt him--”

        “He deserved it.”

        “What?”

        “He deserved it. I’m sorry I left him alone with you. I’m sorry you know me.” Henry stopped crying and let himself sink into the coolness of the floor.

        “No, that doesn’t make sense.” Jascha whispered.

        “It’s true. Everyone would be better off if I were gone.”

        Jascha grabbed Henry’s wrist even though he tried to get away. “No. It’s not.” His voice was dark as the ocean. “Ernest needs you. So do Alphonse and William. You can’t leave them now. Not like this.”

        “I have to read to William,” Henry flinched as Jascha put his hand on his back. He should panic. Those were the hands that hurt Victor, but all he could feel was the warmth wrapping around his spine. He rubbed small circles and forced the muscles to relax.

        “If I can live, so can you.” Jascha whispered.

        “Of course you’re alive. It’s not even a question,” Henry murmured. The red started to clear from his eyes.

        “It’s terrible sometimes.”

        “Yeah,” Henry forced himself to stand. He didn’t have the energy to actually comb his hair, but he ran his hands through it.

        “Can we stay alive together? For Ernest and William?” Jascha held Henry’s elbow and did not intend to let go.

        “We can,” Henry conceded. “Together.” Jascha let go. “I’ve got to go comfort William,” Technically, there were two minutes left. “Please tell Ernest I’m sorry.”

        For a moment, it looked like Jascha might argue. “I will. Please tell William I’m sorry too.”

        “I will.”

        Henry walked back to William’s door and it was like nothing had been wrong. The boy was already snuggled under his sheets with a book and a stuffed isopod for Henry.

        “I know they’re for babies,” he said, voice heavy with sleep. “But it’s soft and Victor gave it to me.”

        “Thanks, bud,” Henry tucked it under his arm and William against his chest. “In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit...” and William was asleep before he could finish the page.

 

* * *

  

        “ _Don’t talk, put your hand on my shoulder!_ ”  Victor crooned at full volume.  “ _Don’t talk, close your eyes and be still!_ ”

        Out of the corner of his eye, Victor could see the whiteness of his father’s hands as they clutched the steering wheel, a death grip by any other name. He could see the twitch in his cheek and the vague impression of tears in his deep brown eyes. Alphonse Frankenstein didn’t cry. Victor had done that. Or maybe Ernest had. Or both of them.

        “ _Don’t talk!_ ”  Victor sang louder.  “ _Listen! Listen!_ ”

        “Victor.” His father said, sharp as a blade. “Stop. Don’t you know how much trouble you’re in?”

        “Oh, I’m well aware.” Victor grinned, the motion pulling hard at the blood caked around his lips. He wished it was still dripping. He wanted to bathe in the red of it; drown in the deep color and the stickiness; let the thickness fill his throat. “You’re gonna throw me back in the crazy sack!” He added the last part in a kind of sing song, which dropped into full seriousness. “Even though you said you wouldn’t. Even though you promised. No wonder I have trust issues, honestly, with a dad like you.”

        “I said this was your last chance.” His father replied roughly. “And you completely-”

        “-completely disregarded my rules!” Victor guessed. “Completely ruined your brother’s mental health! Oh, oh, wait, I know, completely disrespected your mother’s memory!”

        The pain on his father’s face grew more pronounced. “Don’t you dare-”

        “-speak about your mother like that!” Victor smiled. “Man, I’m good at this game.”

        “Is that what this is to you!? A game!” His father suddenly yelled, voice stepping into volumes Victor had never heard directed at anyone before, much less him. “Your brother is a wreck, you provoked our guest to violence, I don’t even know how I’m going to console Henry-” His father bit himself off. “And, god, William. How am I supposed to explain this to an eleven-year-old, Victor? I don’t even know how much he saw…”

        “Just tell him that sometimes crazy runs in the family. I mean, odds are he has it too.” Victor ran a hand across the window, splaying the dried blood on his fingers down the glass. “Have you had that talk with him yet? Have you told him that he’s going to be miserable and doomed no matter what he does?”

        “William is-”

        “Well, I suppose you wouldn’t have.” Victor faced his father fully for the first time since entering the car. “After all, William’s normal. He’s just like Ernest. I’m the only one who took after Mom so I was the only one who got to hear all about it.” He smiled calmly. “It’s a lot, you know. For a kid to hear. Every single day. Every single time I messed up. You worked so hard to convince me I wasn’t retarded or unwanted only to turn around.” Victor reached deep into the pit of his stomach and forced his voice to take on a gravely, low baritone. “‘Victor, you know empathy is hard for you, you’re basically just a psychopath waiting to happen. Victor, you can’t have knives, you’ll end up slitting your wrists. Victor, you can’t drink, you’re going to be an alcoholic. Victor, your temper tantrums are obviously indicative of underlying issues, here have some therapy.’”

        “That’s-”

        “Enough! ‘Victor, it looks like you’re having some issues interacting with your little brother Ernest, on whom I lavish the majority of my attention and affection because you, being a genius, obviously don’t need it. Perhaps the solution here is to force you to spend more time with him so you can see, in acute detail, every single way you fail as compared to him. Oh, what’s that? The boys are fighting again? Time to scream at Victor about his lack of ability to experience human connection!’” Victor hummed to set his voice back to its regular pitch. “That was a solid plan.”

        His father’s lip twitched minutely. He could see the jaw clench like a steel lock. “I was doing the best I could. Your mother and I did the best we could with you.”

        “Well, knock up job, you two.” Victor bared his bloody teeth. “Your one son is probably sobbing into a toilet bowl right now, the other is sitting in bed, worried out of his mind that I’m going to die, and then.” He threw his arms wide, uncaring of how they banged into the ceiling and window. He couldn’t feel the pain in his fingers or his pounding of his nose or the warmth of the car’s heating or the roughness of his stiffening shirt or much of anything besides a low, sinking turn in the pit of his being. “There’s lovely ol’ me! Your own personal master of the undead!”

        There was a beat of silence in which his father appeared to focus on the road. He took the exit Victor knew led to the hospital. “What do you mean by that?”

        “What?” Victor leaned back in his seat, letting his head loll. “What are you referring to?”

        His father grimaced. “Jascha. You said you...brought him back from the dead.”

        “...And you believe me? I thought I was laying on the nutso act a bit thick there.”

        His father chuckled bitterly. “Act. Yeah. Because you’re so in control right now, Victor.”

        “I am.” Victor said. He met his father’s eyes with seriousness, watching genuine fear reflect back to him with mild interest. “That’s the issue, I feel completely and totally in control right now. You think I’ve snapped or something, but I feel more stable than I have in months.” He glanced away, out into the reflection of the city lights, and rubbed at his chin. “You think that means I’m evil? I feel like that’s pretty strong evidence.”

        “Victor-”

        “Maybe that means I’ve been evil all along and I was just pretending to be good to trick Clerval. Maybe this is the real Victor and the rest of it was all a complex facade.” He smiled lazily. “Maybe seven-year-old me was right and I’ve been a changeling all along, just waiting for the moment I could emerge as a the monster I was meant to be and finally murder Ernest!”

        “Victor! Shut up!”

        “Make me!” Victor screamed right back. He slapped his hands over his ears and squeezed until he could feel his brain leaking out of the cracks in his skull.  “ _Don’t talk! Put your hand! On my shoulder!_   You remember that one, Dad?! That song you used to sing me whenever I was upset or couldn’t sleep as a kid!  Our  song! The one thing in my  entire goddamn life  Ernest hasn’t managed to take away from me!”

        “Victor! Oh god-” The car lurched to one side and skidded to a halt. Victor continued to hum loudly until he felt a pair of hands grabbing his own, prying them from his hair in a manner he guessed would have been gentle had it not been simultaneously frantic. He peeled his eyes open and smiled at his now openly crying father, who was kneeling by the side of the car with Victor’s hands held in a vice grip. “Aw,” Victor cooed, “you really do care.”

        “Victor,” his father choked out, “what did you mean when you said you brought Jascha back from the dead?”

        Victor tilted his head to the side and smiled vaguely. “I meant it literally, of course. I brought Jascha back from the dead. I thought you would have picked up on that by now. I mean, you’re so into classical music and shit and he is  the  music scene right now. Or, well,” he trailed off, “he used to be before he went super-splat all over the Big Apple pavement.”

        His father closed his eyes. “You’re...you’re not thinking straight.”

        “I’m telling the truth.” Victor replied. He glanced to his hands, trying to focus on the heat of them, stark against the cold, wintery evening. It was snowing. Wet and thick and slushy. How long had it been snowing? “I brought him back, Dad. I took his body and I fixed it and I brought him back, good as new. Or...slightly less good. I think I poisoned him. In the process. He thinks like me now. Sometimes.” As his voice dropped to a whisper, his father leaned in closer, still clutching his hands way too tightly, turning them red and white and blue. “I think I broke him. But I also saved him. How weird is that?”

        His father scoured his face as if trying to pry the untruth from him by sight alone. “Victor...what you’re talking about is impossible. People don’t,” he shook his head slowly, “people don’t come back from the dead.”

        “Yeah. They don’t.” Victor swallowed hard. “Unless you run about fifteen thousand volts of electricity through them while simultaneously supporting their system in a stable condition, mimicking the environment of the body immediately after death and prior to the onset of rigor mortis. Which I did.” He laughed lightly. “It only took one try too, can you believe that? One good college try.”

        “No.” His father shook his head more firmly. He drew his hand down his face and sniffed hard. “No.” He released Victor’s hands. Stood. Wandered slightly back from the car. “You’re not thinking right, you’re not thinking. This is just like Ingolstadt and you’re just…” He waved a vague hand towards Victor. “...It’ll be okay. We’ll, uh...we’ll fix this. I’ll fix this. I did it last time, I can do it again.”

        “Dad.” Victor was surprised at the gentleness in his own voice as was his father, who turned on him with wide, wild eyes. “I don’t think you can.”

        “No.” His father repeated. “No, okay, no. I’m not...I’m not losing you.” He started forward and took Victor’s hands once more into his vice grip. “I will not lose you. Not the way I lost your mother. You, Ernest, Elizabeth, Henry, William, you’re all my responsibility. I wasn’t…” he looked down, “I haven’t done a good enough job. You’re right. I’ve failed all of you, haven’t I? Even Ernest, god, I…” When he laughed, it was a shaky and weak sound, more misplaced mucus than anything else. “I don’t even know what’s happened to Ernest! He...your brother tells me everything and somehow I’ve...I don’t know. I don’t know how to…”

        “Dad.” Victor grabbed at his shoulder. His father looked up, throwing a wave of desperation over Victor so powerful, it made him want to throw up. He dug his fingers into his father’s shirt and met his gaze intently. “...I think I’m god.”

        His father stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed again, a laugh which rapidly dissolved into a sob. “Why am I trying to talk to you about this? Why am I…” He stood up and drew Victor into a hug, which he returned hesitantly. “I don’t know what to do, Caroline.” He muttered softly and Victor could tell he wasn’t meant to hear it, but he did. “I don’t know what to do.”

        Victor hummed again and, after a few tries, forced his aching hand to wind into his father’s hair. He rocked in place, forcing his father to move with him.  “ _Don’t talk, put your head on my shoulder_.”  He sang softly.  “ _Don’t talk, close your eyes and be still_.”

        It felt like they sat there forever. It was probably more like five minutes. With Victor singing in a way which he meant to be comforting, but was probably more unnerving and his father struggling to bring his breathing back to a normal rate. He had the distinct impression that this scene should be disturbing; that seeing his normally-composed father half-collapsed on the snow covered ground should be so thoroughly, incomprehensibly wrong that he should just combust. But he couldn’t feel much at all right now, so he just waited.

        Eventually, his father stood. “We...we still need to get you to the hospital.” He said.

        “Why?”

        “Because your nose is broken, Victor.”

        “Oh.” Victor touched it delicately. He looked over his father’s bent and exhausted form. “I think we should go home instead.”

        His dad shook his head determinedly. “No, if we let it sit, it’ll heal wrong.”

        “I don’t mind having a crooked nose.”

        “Victor.”

        “I think you need to go home, Dad.” Victor repeated. He wasn’t sure where the words were coming from. He wasn’t sure where he was. It was cold and it was dark and it smelled like gasoline and piss. “I think we need to go home. Doesn’t Ernest need you?”

        “Yeah.” Bitterness. “Because you care so much about Ernest.”

        Victor didn’t know how to answer that. It wasn’t a question. Without thinking, he drew his sleeve across his nose. It was bleeding again. “I want to go home now.” He repeated. “I want Henry.”

        This time, his dad’s expression was unreadable. Not blank like a slate, but like a overwhelming bombardment of emotions and flickering pain all combining into true neutral. “Victor, I don’t know if Henry will want to see you.”

        “I know.” He said. “I still want to go home. I want to sleep. I think you need to talk to Ernest. And Jascha. They hurt him, Dad. They hurt him really bad.”

        His father took a breath that was a hard gasp. “We need to go to the hospital.” He ushered Victor to put his legs back into the car and when Victor didn’t pick up on the hint, pulled them in himself. “Then we’ll go home, okay?”

        “And you weren’t lying?” Victor said suspiciously. “You’re not going to leave me there?”

        “...No, Victor. I’m not going to leave you. Not this time.”

        “Okay.” Victor drew his knees to his chest. He didn’t feel good anymore. He felt sick. He felt like his insides were going to crawl out his throat like snakes. Like worms. Like his body was made of rotting worms. Yeah. That was it. Rotten, frozen, dying worms. “I wish Jascha had killed me.”

        He stared out the frosted front window. His father didn’t respond. Victor wasn’t even sure if he’d said that out loud.

        The hospital was loud and bright and violent. His father had to hold his arm tight to keep him from thrashing away from it all and hitting the poor nurse who was to reset his nose. He kept trying to tell her that it was fine to leave it, that he liked the blood and the brokenness and not being able to breath, but she just looked to his dad and asked if Victor was okay to make decisions. His dad said no and said that Victor was special needs. His dad so rarely lied.

        The ride home was made in silence without even NPR to overlay it. Victor spent the whole of the trip rolled on his side, trying to decide whether he wanted to puke or claw his own eyes out. It was a tough call. He decided to just lie still instead. When they arrived home, nobody was downstairs. He couldn’t hear anyone upstairs either.

        His father, still supporting him by the arm, looked around the empty house blankly before turning to Victor. He placed his hands on his shoulders and that was, at least, the right order of things. “Okay, Victor. I’m going upstairs. I’m, um...I’m going to ask Henry if he wants to see you. He may say no-”

        “I hope he says no.”

        His dad paused. “I’m still going to ask.”

        “Okay.” Victor glanced around, unsurely. The house felt big on a normal day, but now it loomed. A coffin. “Where do I wait?”

        “You can wait-”

        “You should lock me up.”

        His father paused. More pain on his face. More fear. More acceptance. “You can wait in the study.”

        His father walked him in, sat him down in the big chair, and set about clearing out drawers and shelves. Victor watched the scissors and the stapler and all other the sharp objects leave the room with a distant kind of discomfort.

        After he’d cleared the space to his content, his dad paused again. “Okay.” He said to himself. “Okay.”

        He walked to the door and, shooting Victor what he supposed was a smile, but was really a grimace, closed the door. It locked behind him. Twice.

        Victor settled himself in the big chair, his dad’s special chair, and scanned the room. His eyes landed on the shelf of photos almost immediately and lingered there. Mom, Dad, Ernest, William, Henry. Him. Him but not him, him but the him that should be him if he could just remember how to be him. That him. Victor stood and snatched the wretched thing from the shelf. He threw it across the room and grinned in gorey satisfaction as it splintered against the wall.

        As the locks clicked and door knob turned, it was Henry who entered to see Victor standing over the glass, trying to decide whether or not he should be attempting to clean it.

 

* * *

 

        Jascha stood in the bathroom long after Henry left. This couldn’t be happening. He felt numb. He’d only ever talked about suicide with someone once, and that was his friend Cleo in their junior year. They never dated, but they were awkward friends and he’d found her after she’d tried to kill herself over being dumped by her boyfriend and put on probation from ballet after she kept fainting from not eating. Even then, all he’d done was clean up with her and walk her to health services. And cried to his mother for nearly four hours the next day. What if he’d said something wrong to Henry? What if Henry was still in danger? He needed to call his mom. He needed to find Ernest. He couldn’t tell Ernest. He desperately wished he could go to Ernest and ask him if he’d said the right things. Ernest was sleeping, though. Or at least he was when Jascha heard Henry screaming. When Ernest slept, he was a heavy sleeper.

        Jascha cleaned the bathroom and washed his hands. He didn’t stop until the entire floor was dry and clear of blood, and he scrubbed his hands until they were raw and every trace of blood was off of them. He pulled himself out of the bathroom and made the long walk back to Ernest’s room, pausing outside the door.

        “Jascha?” A deep voice said quietly behind him. He nearly died of shock as he turned around and faced Alphonse.   
        “I’m sorry,” He said quickly, his back against the door. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ll leave at once. Just let me pack my things and-”

        “You don’t need to do that,” Alphonse said tiredly. “Why are you standing outside Ernest’s door? Is he-”

        “I’m not.” Jascha said as if on command. He realized that wasn’t the right answer when Alphonse raised an eyebrow at him. Jascha reconsidered the kitchen knife downstairs. “I…”

        He nearly fell over when Ernest pulled the door open, catching Jascha before he collapsed backwards. “Jascha?” He asked blearily. “Dad…?”

        Jascha stood, dumbfounded, as Alphonse pushed past him gently and wrapped his arms around Ernest. He watched as Ernest slowly returned his embrace, his tired facade breaking away as he buried his face in his father’s shoulder. Jascha couldn’t believe it when Alphonse kissed Ernest on the forehead. He couldn’t remember the last time he was kissed by his own father. Not since he was eight or so.

        “Ernest,” Alphonse said firmly as his son’s shoulders shook with exhausted sobs. “You don’t need to tell me anything, but I need you to know that you can. I love you unconditionally, and that will never, ever change.”

        Jascha wasn’t sure if he should be seeing this. It seemed personal. And he wasn’t sure if ‘unconditional’ covered sleeping in the same bed as the man who beat up his eldest son. Hell, he wasn’t sure if it covered sleeping in the same bed as a man at all. His father certainly wouldn’t tolerate it. Probably. He moved away slightly; hesitantly and unwillingly heading back to his guest bedroom.

        “Jascha,” Ernest said, pulling away from his father to look at him. “Don’t.” Jascha stopped. He looked between Ernest and his father, who looked at him with measured concern. Did he go anyways? What father would tolerate this? He decided that hurting Ernest was worse than whatever Alphonse could do to him, so he’d compromise by not moving in either direction. Ten feet seemed like a relatively comfortable distance.

        “Ernest,” Alphonse said softly, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “What can I,” he looked at Jascha carefully, “we do to help you tonight?”

        “Is Victor okay?” Ernest asked quietly, evidently startling Alphonse.

        “Yes. He’s going to be fine,” he said quickly. “He’s coming down from it now.”

        Ernest nodded. “That’s good,” his voice was gentle. “I...always worry when he-”

        “I know.” Alphonse said firmly. “This...was bad. Not as bad as Ingolstadt, but bad.”

        “And you know…?” Ernest looked anxiously to Jascha.

        “I know that it was Jascha,” Alphonse said, almost defeatedly. Ernest nodded.

        “We need to tell Will it was me,” Ernest said startlingly firmly. “Please don’t ask why. We just have to, okay?”

        Alphonse looked between the two of them, desperately searching them for answers. Jascha folded and unfolded his arms and shifted in place. He’d forgotten he was wearing Ernest’s sweater. And a pair of his pajama pants. He’d taken them when he needed to get to Henry.

        “Okay,” Alphonse finally said. “We can do that.”

        Ernest relaxed slightly, leaning his head against his father’s shoulder. “Dad…”

        “Yes?” There was anxiety in Alphonse’s voice, though he tried to keep it calm.

        “I really, really, can’t talk to you about this tonight,” Ernest paused, drawing a tight breath. “But I need you to let Jascha stay with me. Please. At least for tonight.”

        Alphonse took an unmistakable breath of relief. “Of course. That’s completely fine.” He said gently. Ernest closed his eyes, biting his lip slightly. Jascha took a few steps closer, drawn in as the desire to reach out and comfort Ernest overtook his fear of Alphonse.

        “I...do want to talk, though,” Ernest whispered as he opened his eyes, looking up at Jascha from his father’s embrace. Jascha could see that buried beneath the fear and pain was at least some relief.

        “We can talk whenever you’re ready,” Alphonse said, his voice tender and warm. Ernest sighed as if he were breathing for the first time in days. He probably was.

        Ernest nodded, sinking against his father for several more seconds before pulling away and wiping his eyes. “You need to check on William,” He said firmly. “And Henry.”

        “I talked briefly to Henry. William was asleep.” Alphonse said lovingly. He stroked Ernest’s hair. “Everyone is safe for tonight.”

        “Okay,” Ernest sniffed. He glanced ever so slightly towards Jascha, who got closer still. He was now only inches from Ernest, though he tried his best to keep at least two feet from Alphonse at all times. Out of respect, if not fear.

        “You two should rest,” Alphonse said gently. He touched Ernest’s cheek, running a thumb lightly over where the deep bruises of insomnia marked his eyes. “I’ve never seen you so exhausted,” he whispered, barely audible.

        “I’ll sleep tonight,” Ernest said quietly. “...This morning, at this point. I promise.”   


        “Okay,” Alphonse stroked Ernest’s hair one more time, worry still evident on his face. He looked at Jascha. “You’ll be there if he needs anything?”

        It took Jascha embarrassingly long to process that he was being spoken to. He was too busy forcing himself to stand still. He nodded. “I’m here,” he said finally. Did Alphonse smile at him? He wasn’t sure.

        He was thankful once Alphonse left and they were alone behind triple-locked doors. He followed Ernest back to his bed, curling around him with his head on his chest. He relaxed, finally, as Ernest stroked his hair. He closed his eyes, allowing the tension to leave.

        “Should I tell him?” Ernest asked softly.

        “Tell him what?” Jascha was already half asleep. He’d used up every shred of his energy between Henry and Alphonse.

        “Us. Everything.” Ernest whispered. “I...he must know something. I mean, Victor screamed at him about the frat…”

        “He doesn’t seem to mind I’m here,” Jascha said into Ernest’s stomach. He could hear Ernest’s heart, quick and strong, beating in his chest.

        “No,” Ernest said weakly. “He doesn’t.”

        “Ernest?” Jascha asked gently.

        “Hm?”

        “I think you should. Tell him everything.” Jascha felt Ernest’s fingers pause.

        “Yeah…” Ernest said with miserable resolve. “I will.”

 

        The morning came and went. They woke around eleven, and stayed tangled in one another until nearly noon when they both decided they needed to shower. After that, they met Alphonse, William, and Henry downstairs. Evidently everyone had slept late. William seemed tired, but not in the deep-seated, miserable way that Henry and Alphonse were. Ernest accepted food, though he ate only half of it. He held Jascha’s hand under the table, a source of comfort for both of them. The guilt was tangible. Jascha could practically taste it in his mouth. He’d done this to this family. He’d been pulled back into life, and from there torn everyone apart by existing. He wished he could apologize; fix it all. Return to the inky velvet of death. But he couldn’t. He made a promise to Henry, and by extension to Ernest and William.

        “Dad?” Ernest said, shattering the silence around the table. All eyes shifted to him; the tired pain of Henry’s amber gaze, the inquisitive brightness of William’s dark eyes. The constant, unreadable watchfulness of his father’s. Jascha wanted to curl in on himself as he realized they were also looking at him. He squeezed Ernest’s hand as he drew a breath.

        “Yes?” Alphonse said gently.

        “I...want to talk. If it’s okay.” Ernest said slowly. Alphonse nodded.

        “Where would you like to go?” Alphonse said warmly, though his eyes were concerned.

        “Anywhere. My room.” Ernest said quickly. He stood shakily, and Jascha rose to stabilize him while he regained his balance. He was unwilling to let go of Ernest’s arm even when Alphonse came over.

        “I’ve got him,” Alphonse said softly. He looked at his son with concern.

        Jascha would have followed them as they went upstairs except that Henry caught his hand. Jascha looked at him desperately, then back to Ernest as he disappeared up the stairs. William fidgeted in his seat.

        “I know, Jascha,” Henry whispered. “But he’s going to be okay.”

        How did he know? What if Ernest panicked? He hadn’t even spoken to him about the incident, and he’d been there. “But-” Jascha started.

        “It’s okay. I promise.” Henry gave him a pale smile. He remembered his promise. Stay for Ernest and William. He couldn’t fall apart now.

        “What should I do?” Jascha asked helplessly. He felt lost in the house without Ernest, and all the fear from yesterday was coming back. He kept hearing Victor’s voice, screaming in his head.  I’m not Jascha Simonis , he thought. Victor had put the seed of doubt in his mind and it was taking root. His skin felt wrong; his limbs were wrong. He wanted to take out his heart, which wasn’t his heart. Gouge out his eyes that weren’t his eyes.

        “Jascha?” He snapped back into the moment. Henry was standing now, and looked worried. “Jascha, what’s wrong?”

        Jascha shook his head, shaking out the thoughts. “Nothing. I’m completely fine.” He needed to do something. Something difficult and distracting, that would require every ounce of his mental energy. He turned to William, who looked at him with eyes the size of saucers. “Do you want to learn how to play the piano?” He asked. He had no idea what he was doing.

        “Can I teach you about the Iliad?” The kid asked.

        “I don’t know who that is.” Jascha said flatly. He glanced at Henry, who was smiling slightly.

        “Why don’t you teach him some music, and then William and I can talk to you about one of the greatest works of ancient literature?” Henry said gently.

        Jascha nodded. This was okay. He could do music and books. He liked books and music. He knew nothing about teaching, which was good. That would make it hard. He headed over to the piano, and William sat beside him. He could do the Chopin. He knew that one.

        “Okay, so here’s the keys,” He gestured to the whole piano. “And the pedals,” He bent down and pointed at the three brass pedals. “You play the keys and use the pedals with your foot. Here. This is the first five measures.” He played it, and looked at William, who stared at him blankly. Henry laughed weakly behind them.

        “Uhh…” Jascha thought about his mom. How did she do it? “Okay. Okay. So. Here’s a scale.” He played a scale. C major. Most boring of all scales. “Now you.”

        William got the scale after three tries. “Excellent, William!” Jascha said, patting him lightly on the shoulder. William smiled at him. “Now, play the first measure of the piece.”

        “I don’t…” William looked at him like he had three heads.

        “Okay. I’m sorry, uh...go back to the scale…?”

        He was almost relieved when William lost interest after half an hour. He let himself be talked to about the Greeks and Trojans and something about demigods and gay soldiers for the better half of an hour before William got a call on the landline from one of his friends. Apparently this friend was more important that Achilles and Patroclus talking to a horse-man.

        “How are you?” He finally asked Henry as they sat at the foot of the stairs.

        “Honestly?” Henry said weakly. “Awful.”

        “I...I’m sorry,” Jascha said quietly. “What can I do to help?”

        “Do you love Ernest?” Henry asked miserably, barely audible. Jascha blushed.

        “I…We...He’s...” He stumbled over his words, unused to talking about anything like this with anyone but Ernest. “Yes,” he finally managed to say.

        “Would you stay with him even if he hurt people? If he hurt you?” Henry couldn’t look at him. “Would you stay?”

        Jascha thought for a minute. “Ernest hurt me before,” He said thoughtfully, thinking back to the panic attacks in which Ernest had blamed him for turning him gay or told him that he couldn’t love him. But that wasn’t him speaking; it was fear. And Jascha didn’t hold it against him. “But he apologized. And it got better.”

        “Even if he did really, really bad things?” Henry looked at him, eyes exhausted from fear and anguish. “And said awful things to you? And about people you care about?”

        “It depends,” Jascha couldn’t ever picture Ernest doing truly awful things. But then again, even he knew that they weren’t really talking about Ernest. “If he fixed them, I might. If he really fixed them, and apologized, and swore to me never to do it again.”

        “Okay,” Henry said with a shaky breath. “Okay.”

        Henry seemed so small beside him, and so hurt. Like an injured cat, curled up against its pain. “Can I touch you?” Jascha asked. Henry looked at him, startled. “On your shoulder.”

        “Uh,” Henry hesitated. “Sure. Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay.”

        Jascha rubbed Henry’s shoulder gently. He was surprised when Henry leaned against him, but it was okay. Trauma bonding. Just like what Justine said.

 


	33. Caustic Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry draws a line. Victor hugs his dad. Jascha has friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!! We're glad you're still sticking with us! As always, we love hearing for you! 
> 
> Trigger warnings: homophobic slurs, references to suicidal intent, descriptions of violence/ trauma, panic attacks

        Alphonse came to William’s room in the early hours that morning and asked him if Henry wanted to see Victor. No. Yes. He hadn’t been sure. In the very least, he’d wanted to make sure Victor was still breathing and he got his nose fixed. That’s what he convinced himself of, at least. They had been through nightmare before and they’d go through it again and again and again until they would both wear away into dust.

        “Victor,” he had said when he entered the study to find him standing over a broken photograph

        “Clerval,” he answered, holding slivers of glass in the crease of his fingers. Henry felt sick even though it was a perfect picture of what they’d been through before. His surname dripped off Victor’s tongue like poorly-made mead.

        “Are you okay? Did they patch up your nose?”

        “Don’t you have more interesting questions to ask me?” Victor asked as he leaned back in Alphonse’s chair.

        “I...do, but you’re not going to like them,” Henry strengthened his voice. “I’m not going to let you push me, Victor. I know what you do.”

        “On the contrary, you don’t know a single thing about me,” Victor spat in return. “If you did, then you’d know that I’m slowly poisoning you and there’s nothing you or Dad or William can do about it.” The singsong edge of his tone made Henry want to bolt, but he couldn’t run anymore. Not from Victor.

        “I just want to make sure you’re okay.” Henry had been amazed at how even his voice was; as smooth and deep as the ocean, filled with bioluminescent monsters with translucent teeth.

        “Oh, don’t waste your time. I’ll never be okay. Ever again.” Victor leaned forward and crushed the glass against his skin.

        “We both...I know that’s not true.”

        “It didn’t work last time. What makes you think it will now, Clerval, hmm?” He’d hummed. His head had lolled against the chair and it looked like his neck would snap. “You just have to accept the fact that I’m poison and move on with your miserable little life.”

        “Victor, I just want to make sure you’re okay and, I don’t know. Maybe comfort you. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Also, it’s Henry.”

        “Well, it’s not supposed to be pleasant, is it, Clerval?” Victor’s voice had been quiet, almost normal, then he slammed his fists on the table and screamed, “I’m poison! I’m poison! I am poison!”

        “Fine.” Henry could still feel each of his ribs snapping, exposing his heart and lungs. The bruises still ached from all the other horrors that had been inflicted upon him. What was another? “I do have questions for you.”

        “Finally,” Victor grinned. There might as well have been blood on his teeth. “Hurt me, Clerval. I deserve it.”

        “I...no. I’m not going to. I’m--” Henry covered his mouth with his hands as he spoke. Finally, with Victor standing in front of him, hands bloodied from clawing at his floodgates, the swell of memories rushed back into him. “Do you really think of me like that?”

        “Like what? A fag?” Victor asked, sweetly. “My dear, sweet Clerval, it’s kinda hard not to when it defines literally everything you do.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Even your academics. Really Clerval, it’s a pity. You could have been such a great scientist with me, but no. You had to go waste your life studying sensitive little people doing sensitive little things. It’s kinda pathetic, actually.”

        “Victor,” Henry shook.

        “It’s interesting, you know, watching you work. You get so invested, it would almost be sweet. It’s like you don’t even realise they’re dead. How long can someone suffer under the delusion that they matter?” Victor touched Henry’s shoulder and he thought he might be sick. Black beetles crawled from all his other wounds and tore away from his flesh. “You really keep it going for them, and me too. We could all live on forever and ever and ever if only Henry Clerval keeps believing in us.” Victor’s eyebrows rose and he looked straight to the back of Henry’s spinal column. “It’s time to let some things die.”

        “No Victor, I’m not...I’m not letting you go.”

        “Well, you should!” he yelled. “Or I’ll stop remembering to be nice to you.”

        “Do you think I wanted this?” Henry yelled. “Do you think I wanted to lose my family and my home to be with you?” He was screaming. He sounded like his father. “Do you think I liked being ridiculed in school, or cut off from my friends, or abandoned by my lover? I don’t get off on suffering like you do, Victor. I don’t want to be in pain.”

        “Wow, that’s a lot of questions,” Victor mused. “Let me see, I think the answers are yes, yes, and yes. You are nothing if you’re not suffering. I can tell by your face, I’m right. I’m so good at this game,” he stood and did a little half twirl that would have been charming if it weren't terrifying. “It’s quite a simple conclusion. I’ve been watching you since we were six. Henry Clerval doesn’t exist unless he’s in pain. Why else would he stay with poor, old Victor Frankenstein.”

        Henry’s back hit the door and he slid to the ground, hands clamped over his ears, as if that could make the nightmare stop. “Why are you doing this to me?” His resolve completely cracked and his voice quaked like a sparrow’s feather.

        “Oh, I need Clerval alive and at my side. There is nothing I wouldn’t do keep him there, even if it hurts. Don’t you understand? He’s the only thing that keeps me sane. I need his heartbeat or else I’m lost.” Victor squatted in front of him. “Can I touch you?”

        “Please, don’t, Victor. Not now. I can’t--”

        “You can’t what?” He pressed a hand to Henry’s chest and he started sobbing.

        “No! Please don’t touch me! Please! Please, Victor! Please!” He tried to kick away, but there was nowhere to go. Victor ran his finger over his cheek, leaving a small streak of blood.

        “You promised me your heart, didn’t you, Clerval?”

        “I promised it to Victor! I don’t even know who you are!”

        Once again, Alphonse had rescued him. The clicking of the locks were the sweetest sound he’d heard in months. Instinctually, he had gone to Victor’s room and curled up in Victor’s bed and inhaled the scent of Victor’s blood. He lay there for a long time, too. Until he found Jascha and William, but by then, no one else could tell that something worse had happened.

        >Jascha was warm and his clothing smelled like cinnamon; like Ernest. Henry’s skin buzzed and he wanted it to stop. Beetles, beetles everywhere and yellow eyes watching him from somewhere dark. He would have done anything, anything in the entire world, to erase the past few hours from existence. It played in his head over and over as he sat with Jascha in silence. It thrummed and burned and maybe if Henry pressed his thumbs deep enough into his eyes the fuzzy colors would blot it out entirely. He could claw his brain out through his eyesockets, but he promised Jascha he wouldn’t, so he didn’t.

        “I’m sorry you’re stuck with this,” Henry said into his side. “You deserve better.”

        “I’m happy to stay here if it means being with Ernest.” He hadn’t stopped rubbing his shoulder but Henry could tell something about his demeanor changed.

        “What are you going to do now?” he asked.

        “Wait for Ernest to come back.” A simple answer to a more complex question.

        “Can I wait with you?” Henry asked.

 

* * *

 

        His father took away the photographs after Victor broke the third one. He’d really only intended to break the one with him in it, but, after seven hours spent locked up in the small, cramped, suffocating study with them, it became a matter of self preservation to smash the others. He managed to tear the one with his mother to shreds and was beginning on William’s when his father appeared to stop him. In hindsight, he probably should have started with Ernest’s or his father’s. The terror on his father’s face at the sight of little Willy decapitated on the floor was probably enough to guarantee that Victor wasn’t getting out of this room for another day at least.

        There was nothing to do in the study with the pictures gone, so he paced. Around the desk, back to the door, back to the desk. He tore up a few books in a fluid fit of frustration then tried to put them back together when the pit in his lower gut grew too gnawing to brush aside. He still had glass in his hands so he entertained himself for a while by smashing them farther into his flesh until his father put an end to that too. He hated the feeling of the gauze bandage that covered his hand and nose, oily and unyielding against his skin. He wanted to pull all of it off, all of his skin and maybe the muscles too, strip himself down to clean bones; dry and brittle and untouchable. He had no idea how people dealt with this, with having flesh. The only thing worthwhile about it was the blood he could spread across the room with lithe fingers, putting pieces of himself over everything to finalize his ownership.

        Victor wanted Clerval back.

        Victor wanted Henry.

        It was too much to think about. Way too much. If he tried, he ended up with doubles; triples; twisty vision and headaches and the overwhelming desire to dig a knife into his chest. Not so much to kill himself, no, but to more properly bare his consumptive wickedness to the world. He wanted Clerval to come back so bad he could barely even stand it. He needed him to come touch him, lay against his bare skin and assure him that he was still real, still here, still breathing and beating. He wanted Clerval to fuck him in the ass until he couldn’t stand or even see straight. Then that fantasy passed and Victor wanted nothing more than to fall into Henry’s arms and weep.

        None of these were options available to him.

        He remembered. He remembered everything he’d said to Clerval when he came to check on him. He remembered how the other man had sniveled and cowered and how he looked like he was going to throw up when Victor traced a bloody hand down his cheek. It was pathetic. He really did act like a overly-kicked puppy, all bark, no bite. The second you threatened to put him back in his place, he dissolved into whines and keening. Victor had no idea how he’d ended up with so weak a lover. He supposed that was the nature of love, though. It was supposed to be like suffering, right? That’s what all Clerval’s poets said. Well, Clerval was suffering by being near to him and his poisonous rot and Victor was suffering by being bound to someone so subhuman and effeminate. They both deserved each other, he guessed. Neither of them were fit for human consumption. Neither of them were worth a damn. They were both just the leftovers and rejects and wasted spaces of the world. It was lucky that Clerval had even found him to begin with or else Victor was confident they both would have been dead by fourteen. Clerval’s heart, the heart he’d given to Victor, was much too delicate to handle proper rejection. And Victor was insane so dying young was pretty much a guarantee.

        Victor desperately wanted Clerval to come fuck him. He wanted to be rammed into the desk, torn bloody and raw, pulled apart from the inside out. He wanted to do something; feel something; he wanted it to hurt so bad he’d never be able to recover.

        Ernest was weak too. Victor was confident of this. Ernest was all the worst parts of their parents stuffed into one freckle-faced man-child. All of the ridiculous caring and empathy and neediness and that awful, awful way he had with manipulation, tricking everyone around him into thinking that _they_ were the ones who wanted him near, loved him and relied on him, while Ernest sapped them of their energy like a starved leech. He’d done it to their dad, he’d done it to Mom, he’d even done it to Jascha, his perfect experiment, a superhuman of a man who was now reduced to nothing more than Ernest’s domestic little pet, eagerly attending to his every will and whim.

        They were all weak. Pathetic. And, hey, it made sense. They were all fags, weren’t they? But what did that make Victor? He was the one thinking about Clerval bending him over a table. Did that make him weak too?

        He was going to die. He had decided it. He wasn’t going to kill himself because that was too hard and he was a coward, but if he just kept pacing in the room and throwing up in the corner and refusing to let himself eat or sleep or rest, maybe the universe would take pity on him and let him slip away. Maybe the universe would take pity on everyone around him and finally put an end to Victor Frankenstein.

        It was a nice thought. A good one. He didn’t believe in god or hell or divine punishment so all he had waiting was blissful nothing and cold, hard ground. A space in the plot beside his mom. He wanted her back. He wanted her so much he could barely breathe. But, then again, he paused, if he died, who was to say he wouldn’t be back. He’d brought Jascha back from a worse fate. What if someone did the same to him, tore him open, lined his stomach with needles and stitches, shocked him back into a waking nightmare? He wouldn’t be able to survive it. He would actually lose his mind.

        What did he think he was doing right now though except losing his mind?

        Victor wanted Henry back.

        He needed to tell him he was sorry for existing, that he was sorry for causing Henry pain, that he was sorry he was the reason Henry believed pain and love were the same thing because Victor knew. He knew he hadn’t actually saved Henry that night after he’d been kicked out of his house, left in the cold and the dark. No, Victor had just lifted him from one torture to the next, condemned him to a life of watching the person he loved reject him and abuse him and throw him in the mud only to ask why he was having such a hard time standing on broken legs.

        Victor needed to apologize to Ernest too, make sure he knew that he was a good fucking kid and the son their parents had always deserved and the only shining light left in this house ‘cause god knows that Victor was sinking fast and he was taking their dad and Henry with him. Probably Liz too, because she didn’t know how to stop loving him. He wished he could ask Ernest to tell him how to make it stop. He didn’t want to be loved any more. It hurt too much and it hurt everyone else and so far Ernest was the only one who’d escaped his wrath with enough of a personality to survive in the real world.

        Ernest would survive. Despite what happened at that house. Despite what happened in this one. He’d survive and thrive and one day marry Jascha and adopt thirteen children and be one of those ultimate team sports dads with infinite energy and the baking skills of a PTA mega monster.

        Victor hated him for it. Victor hated everyone. Victor hated that this was the routine, that his breakdowns were the norm. That even if he lived through this, he would spend the rest of his life waiting on an edge, ready to jump off again the minute anything went wrong, the second any soft breeze appeared at his back that he could claim pushed him to it.

        This wasn’t as bad as Ingolstadt.

        This was so much worse than Ingolstadt.

        Nobody was going to come check on him again, huh?

        Victor picked at the gauze covering his hand with his teeth and tried to pry the door lose again. He could probably pick it. He was fairly skilled at that. He had to pick a lot of locked doors to get to the bodies he needed to make Jascha and all it really took was a paperclip. He was standing in the middle of a study. It wouldn’t be a very hard task to find one.

        What would he do when he got out, though? Wander around? Remind everyone he existed? Go pick another fight with Jascha? He was sure the man wouldn’t raise a hand to him again, not in front of Ernest. He could go track down Clerval and try and rile him up again. This morning had been fun in an extremely pitiful way. It was fun to see his lover squirm like a flipped beetle. Besides, he’d left before Victor could even get to the best parts of his speech like telling him all about how he’d had known Clerval had liked him since they were fifteen and still chosen not to acknowledge it until this year. How, in some ways, he agreed with Lawrence’s treatment of Clerval, which had made him so much harder for Victor to break yet so eager to please that he would never abandon Victor’s side. Clerval’s abuse had transformed him into a perfectly obedient boyfriend

        Still, it was horrible to know that Henry would never have fallen in love with Victor if he hadn’t been trained to accept that he’d never been worthy of love in the first place. Did Henry really love him or did Henry love that Victor didn’t hurt him as much as Lawrence did?

        Henry had waited for him.

        Victor didn’t want to hurt anymore. But he also needed to hurt as much as possible or none of this was even real. He’d said that Henry wasn’t himself if he wasn’t suffering, but what was Victor if he wasn’t causing it.

        He yanked the gauze off his hand and dug his finger into one of the tear-drop sized cuts in it. It didn’t even burn. This was pointless. How was he supposed to make amends to himself if he couldn’t even register pain?

        Victor picked up the nearest thing he could find and threw it at the door. It gave a satisfying shatter. He watched the pieces of the snow globe drip down the wood in large, globby chunks of white and glitter, with fascination.

        As if one cue, the locks rattled and the door swung askew to reveal the sallow face of his father. Victor observed him quietly as he stepped into the room and bent to examine the broken globe. He looked wrecked and he had tears on his cheeks.

        “You forgot that one.” Victor said.

        His dad looked to him for explanation.

        “You forgot the snow globes.” Victor clarified. “They’re made of glass too.”

        His dad sighed and pressed his fingers into his eyes for a second. Victor tipped his head against the dizziness making its way up his spine. “You’ve been crying again?”

        “Yes.” His dad answered.

        “For me?” Silence. “For Ernest?” It stretched on. “He told you.”

        “Victor,” his father said shortly, “I’m not- I’m not going to talk to you about this right now.”

        He thought he heard a piano being played. It was a rendition of happy birthday.

        His father glanced back to the broken snow globe, face drawn and shoulders hunched. “Do you need me to take the snow globes out too?” He asked.

        “Do you care if they’re broken?”

        “Yes.”

        “Then yes.” Victor said.

        His dad left and returned with a box to pack up the globes. He took the paper clips, too, for good measure. So much for that.

        “Do you need anything?” His father asked slowly, hesitating by the door.

        Victor thought. “I want Clerval’s heart.”

        “Do you want anything I can actually bring you?” His dad replied.

        “You could bring me that. There are knives in the kitchen and he won’t fight you.”

        His father closed his eyes for a beat. He looked seconds away from screaming again but he didn’t quite manage it. “How about some food?”

        “I can’t eat. My stomach is made of maggots and they’ve already gorged themselves on my sweet flesh.”

        “Applesauce? And toast?”

        Victor felt like he was being tricked. “Yes…” He narrowed his eyes. “But I don’t want crust.”

        “Noted.” His dad left the room with the snow globe box.

        Victor followed him to the door and pressed his ear against it. Outside he could hear one voice instructing another about Greek mythology. He couldn’t catch the details of the story, but the enthusiasm in William’s high words carried.

        The doorbell rang making Victor jump. The voices stopped and footsteps ran away down another corridor.

        Victor wanted Henry. He was probably out there right now. He could go find him and apologize to him and then maybe Henry would hold his hand and stroke his back and his flesh would stop crawling. He reached for the handle. Yanked his hand away.

        He wasn’t allowed to do that.

        Victor didn’t deserve Henry anymore. Maybe he never did. He never did.

        Victor took a hesitant step back from the door and then another. He could feel the beginnings of tears welling up in his eyes, choking lines of salt crawling up his throat and stinging the cut on his cheek as they rolled down. That was a good sign, actually. The fact that he was crying again. Not fake crying but actually sobbing. That meant he was coming down from it. The thought, however, only made him want to cry harder because he knew what came next.

        He wasn’t ready to lose Henry Clerval.

        When his dad reappeared at the door again, Victor accosted him in a hug and clung as tight as he could, grateful beyond measure when his father relented his stiffness to cradle him. He pushed his damp face into the crook of his dad’s neck and let him run a comforting hand down his back. He knew that when he resurfaced, the warmth would be gone and he would have to go be Victor Frankenstein again, with all his many mistakes and misdeeds to make up for. But for now he just wanted to be Alphonse's son. That was all.

        For now he was just Victor who was going to lose Henry no matter what he did and that was something worth crying over.

 

* * *

 

        Jascha got antsy after twenty minutes on the steps, returning to the piano. He was surprised when Henry followed him, sitting down on the bench beside him.

        “Do you play?” He asked. He didn’t understand how a family could have a grand piano and _not_ play it.

        “I know about as much as William,” Henry said with a weak smile.

        Jascha smiled back, happy for the distraction. “Do you want to learn how to play?”

        “I, uh, really don’t think I’m ready for Chopin…” Henry said shyly.

        “Hm,” Jascha thought for a minute. What songs were universally known and understood, that he knew how to play on the piano, other than Chopin? “Do you know Happy Birthday?”

        Henry laughed slightly. “Yes, I am aware of that song.”

        Jascha nodded and guided him through the short song. He should have started with this one with William, he supposed. After maybe fifteen minutes Henry could play it without help.

        “Who’s birthday is it?” Ernest asked from behind them, startling Jascha. He stood up and was about to take Ernest into his arms when he saw Alphonse behind him, looming with a nearly unreadable mix of grief and exhaustion. Jascha glanced between the two, noting that both of them sported red, puffy eyes. They’d been crying.

        “Ernest,” Jascha said quietly. He didn’t know what to say. He wished he could reach out and touch him; reassure him that he was loved and cared for. Any words he might say would feel cheap and inadequate.

        “Hey,” Ernest said softly, looking away with a sad smile. He bit his lip; a tell that he was trying not to tear up.

“Did you talk?” Jascha asked gently. He glanced at Alphonse tentatively, trying to get a read on how much Ernest said.

        “Mhm,” Ernest nodded. He looked back at Jascha, this time with what appeared to be a sort of wet-eyed relief. “It’s okay, Jascha,” he whispered, reaching out and touching his arm lightly. “He knows.”

        Jascha blushed and felt suddenly unable to look at Alphonse. Sure, he’d told Ernest to tell him everything. But now he was worried that he told him _everything_. What if Alphonse knew about the shower thing at the hotel? Or even earlier, back at the frat? He’d never even told his mother after he accidentally got a blowjob from his friend Cleo back at Juilliard their first year. Because that would be crazy. Parents can’t know about sex. But what if Ernest told him? Oh, fuck. Ernest was looking at him. He was actually expecting a response.

        “Okay, cool,” Jascha said quickly. Ernest raised an eyebrow at him “I mean great. That’s great.” He heard Henry actually laugh from behind him. Jascha was going to apologize and panic, but Ernest smiled at him and squeezed his arm.

        “It’s okay, dude,” Ernest said with a warm smile. He was back. The lights were back on behind his eyes, and even with the bony cheeks and dark circles he looked better. Jascha looked hesitantly at Alphonse, who gave him a tired smile.

        “You’re more than welcome here,” Alphonse said with gentle firmness. Now that Jascha was actually looking at him he could see that he and Ernest had the same smile, and he relaxed by maybe an inch. He let his gaze get pulled away from Alphonse as Ernest uncrossed his arms for him and pulled him into a hug. He glanced apologetically at Alphonse, but he was met with an accepting smile rather than discomfort.

        “Dad, you should go check on Victor,” Ernest said after a few seconds. “I heard him breaking stuff as we were coming down the stairs.”

        “Yes, I did too. I’ll go see what’s up,” Alphonse said with a sigh. His smile dissolved and he just looked tired. “You’ll be okay?”

        Ernest let go of Jascha and hugged his dad instead. Jascha was getting the impression that this was normal in this household, but it still threw him for a loop. His dad only hugged him during emotional crises. Which, granted, weren’t uncommon. “I’m okay,” Ernest said into his father’s shoulder. Alphonse closed his eyes and buried his face in Ernest’s hair for a minute before pulling away.

        “Please make sure William has whatever he needs,” Alphonse said, looking between Ernest and Henry. The two nodded, and he headed back upstairs.

        “Henry…” Ernest said sadly, seeing how miserable Henry looked. His eyes were still red and he had his own dark circles. He looked war-torn and frayed.

        “It’s-” Henry started to talk, but the words caught in his throat. Jascha followed Ernest back to him, watching as he pulled him into a tight hug. Henry let himself be held and closed his eyes against his tears.

        “We should do something normal,” Ernest said, running his hand gently up and down Henry’s shoulders. “You like the winter olympics, right?” Henry nodded against his shoulder. “Do you want to, like, I don’t know. Order pizza and watch them?”

        Jascha hadn’t even realized how hungry he was. He’d been too nervous to eat while Ernest was upstairs with his dad. He was relieved when Henry nodded again and Ernest pulled out his phone and called. He followed them into the TV room. Ernest sat in the middle of the couch, and Henry curled up in one of the corners. Ernest looked up at Jascha and patted the other spot next to him, which he gladly took. Ernest reached up and stroked his hair, sending shivers down his spine. He maneuvered so that he was laying across his half of the couch with his head in Ernest’s lap and his legs draped over the arm of the couch. Ernest ran his fingers gently along his hairline and Jascha nearly gasped as he felt all of the sore, tight muscles in his neck and back finally relax. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been.

        Ernest flipped through the channels until he found ice skating. There were always multiple channels on during the olympics, so it wasn’t hard to find. He didn’t really care about the skating, so he closed his eyes and basked in the contentment of finally feeling safe again.

        “Henry, come here,” Ernest said gently after a few minutes. Jascha opened his eyes, looking up at Ernest, who smiled down at him. Henry scooched hesitantly closer to Ernest, who wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Jascha smiled. He had Ernest and Ernest had him, and both of them had somehow managed to have Henry too now. It was enough. It almost made up for the awful things Victor said and was probably still saying.

        “Ernest?” William trotted into the room. Jascha waved at him awkwardly.

        “Yeah, Bud?” Ernest stopped petting Jascha and looked at his brother.

        “Are you all watching TV?” He asked, looking at the ice skating, then back at the couch. “Can I fit?” He asked.

        “Absolutely,” Ernest said. Henry pressed up closer to Ernest, giving William some room, though he was pretty much sitting on top of Henry by choice. Jascha decided he liked this; having people he felt relaxed around. He pulled Ernest’s hand to his lips and kissed it quickly, but apparently not quickly enough, even with the lights out.

        “Henry,” William whispered. “Is Jascha Ernest’s boyfriend?” Jascha felt immediate regret. He took a breath and held it, ready to get up and somehow lie to an eleven year old boy that kissing your best friend’s hand was a normal thing to do in Russia.

        “You know I can hear you, right?” Ernest asked lightly.

        “Is he?” William asked. Was he? They’d put off that talk. Ernest had been too stressed for irrelevant conversations about things like labels.

        “I…” Ernest said quietly. Jascha waited. Whatever Ernest said, he’d stand by. Better than telling lies to kids. “Yeah, I guess he probably is.” There was silence for a minute, and Jascha felt weird. Happily embarrassed? Just embarrassed? He sort of wanted to sit up and kiss Ernest properly, but it had nothing on his impulse to run away and never see this kid again.

        “Jascha taught me how to play a scale today,” William finally said. “He’s pretty cool, but Henry and I had to explain to him what the Greek pantheon was.”

        “Now be fair, William,” Henry said, taking on a mock teacher’s voice. “He did know about Apollo. And he knew that Achilles was ‘the guy with the bad heel’.”

        Ernest laughed, and it was his real laugh. Jascha didn’t care that it was at his expense. Besides, Henry didn’t know how to play Happy Birthday on the piano. “It’s okay, Jascha. The only reason I know anything is because my mom was nuts about it.”

        “I don’t mind,” Jascha said, and he really didn’t. Ernest was stroking his hair again and he couldn’t be bothered to care about ancient dead Greek heroes. “I think I could play a lyre if you gave me one.”

        “Ooh!!” Henry and William exclaimed in unison, startling Jascha. Ernest must have felt him tense up, because he patted him gently on the shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

        “We should ask Dad to find you one!” William said gleefully. “I’ve always wanted to hear one be played!”

        “My dad could probably make one,” Jascha said absently. He furrowed his brow. He seemed to be thinking about his dad a lot lately.

        “What’s your dad like?” William asked. Jascha felt a shock of grief and homesickness.

        “Uh…” The doorbell rang, and Jascha jumped to his feet. “Food must be here. I’ll go get it.” Jascha left the room in a hurry.

        “Jascha, do you have money?” Ernest called after him.

        “No, I’ll figure it out!” Jascha called back. He did need money. He ran up to the guest bedroom and took out some of the cash Ernest had given him so long ago, taking the stairs three at a time. When he opened the door, the teenager delivering it gawked at him during their exchange (he didn’t bother waiting for the change, he just shoved a twenty at the kid). He took the pizza directly into the TV room, placing the box on top of the small coffee table.

        Jascha wasn’t crazy about pizza. He’d hidden his indifference to it throughout all the social functions he went to as a kid and teenager because he knew it was normal to be obsessed with pizza. And he understood it now. But not because he realized he actually liked the greasy tomato sauce and gooey cheese. No, it was because for the first time in over a week he got to watch Ernest eat willingly. Enthusiastically, even, and his enthusiasm rendered pizza as a divine food as far as Jascha was concerned.

        “Jascha, are you okay?” Ernest asked, dragging Jascha out of his thoughts.

        “Hm?” Jascha blinked. Ernest was looking at him. He looked confused.

        “I asked if you wanted another slice,” Ernest asked with a smile. “But you just stared at me. Are you okay?”

        “Yup.” Jascha said quickly, catching that now Henry and William were also looking at him in confusion. “Yup, I’m okay. I don’t want another slice. You can have it.”

        “Dude, I already had two. I’m on my third.” Ernest laughed. He almost dropped his third slice as Jascha hugged him. He didn’t care that a small child was watching. That kid was related to Victor and had absolutely seen worse. Jascha held Ernest tightly, burying his face in his neck.

        “You’re okay,” Jascha said into Ernest’s shoulder. “You’re okay.”

        Ernest awkwardly wrapped an arm around Jascha’s shoulders and patted him. “What’s up? Are you sure you’re okay?”

        Jascha pulled away and kissed him chastely on the cheek. “Yes. I’m sure. Please finish eating your pizza.” He felt his cheeks get hot as he saw that Henry was smiling at him, almost sadly, and William stared at him in wide-eyed surprise.

        “I was wondering why the doorbell rang,” Alphonse had appeared in the door. He smiled at all of them, looking relieved to see that some semblance of normal was coming back.

        “Ernest got pizza,” William said happily. “Do you want some?”

        “No, thank you. I’ll cook for myself in a bit,” Alphonse recoiled slightly at the pizza. Apparently Jascha wasn’t the only one who was cool to it.

        “Alphonse?” Henry asked weakly. “How is he?”

        Alphonse sighed and stood up straighter. “He’s...coming down a bit, I think.” Henry nodded slowly. “I told him I was coming down to make sure everyone got dinner.”

        “Can we talk?” Henry asked quickly. “It’s okay if you need to go back to Victor. I can wait.”

        “We can talk if you like,” Alphonse said warmly. “I have about an hour before I need to get back to Victor. We can also talk tomorrow morning, if you’d prefer.”

        “I...think I might need more than an hour,” Henry said quietly.

        “Tomorrow morning, then,” Alphonse said with a smile. “Is it too much to ask you to help William get to bed again tonight?”  
“Not at all!” Henry said with sudden enthusiasm. “We can keep reading The Hobbit.”

        “Excellent,” Alphonse said contentedly. “Thank you so much.”

        After Alphonse left, they kept watching TV until the figure skating ended and skiing started. Thankfully, no one liked skiing, so Jascha didn’t have to endure it or pretend to like it. It was nearly eleven, so they all headed their separate ways for the night. He and Ernest cleaned up and started their trek up to the third floor.

        “Where are you going?” Ernest asked as Jascha headed towards the guest room.

        “Does your dad let partners sleep in your room with you?” Jascha asked.

        “I…” Ernest thought for a minute. “I’ve never asked him. Henry and Victor slept in the same bed for, like, ages before they, you know, started _sleeping_ together. I think it’s fine.”

        Jascha walked back towards Ernest’s room. “I think my mom would die before she’d let anyone I wasn’t married to sleep in my bed with me.” He said quietly.

        “Why?” Ernest asked as he unlocked the door.

        “She worries,” Jascha said affectionately. “She’d probably let me. But she’d worry.”

        Ernest locked all three of the locks. “Your family sounds kinda nuts,” he said lightly, collapsing on the bed in a sprawl.

        “I loved them,” Jascha said in lazy defense. He lay beside Ernest, placing his hand gently on his stomach where his shirt had ridden up when he lay down. “I miss them,” he added softly. He did. He had no idea if they were okay. He...died. He couldn’t imagine how much pain that subjected them to. What would someone do if they lost a child? His stomach dropped; he suddenly realized the dark side to all the times his mother had called him the ‘light of her life.’

        “You should call them,” Ernest said easily, placing his hand over his. “I bet they miss you too.” Jascha thought about it. He focused on the warmth of Ernest’s skin against his hand. Slowly but surely it took his mind off his family.

        “Maybe,” Jascha said after a second. “I’ll think about it later.” He moved his hand slightly and Ernest flinched. Jascha pulled his hand away. “Are you okay?”

        “Yeah,” Ernest said, relaxing again. “It just startled me. And tickled a little.” He took Jascha’s hand and put back against his skin, a little lower than it had been.

        “Okay,” Jascha said absently. The edge of his pinky rested along the waistband of Ernest’s sweatpants, and a thin portion of the top of his underwear peeked out where the pants had slipped slightly. It was suddenly very hard to form coherent thoughts as Ernest kissed him, rolling over top of him.

        “Ernest,” he said as he pulled away quickly, painfully aware of his own desire for this to escalate. “Your family is downstairs.” Ernest kissed his neck as he spoke. If he heard anything Jascha said, he wasn’t acknowledging it. He drew a sharp breath as he felt Ernest undo his fly, relieving some of the growing pressure between his legs. “Are you sure you want this?” He asked in a tight whisper.

        “I’m tired of feeling his hands,” Ernest said quietly, kissing the edge of Jascha’s jaw. “If we go slow, I should be fine.”

        Jascha watched as Ernest rolled back on his hips so that he had room to take off his shirt. He ran a hand down the soft skin of his stomach, feeling lightheaded as he felt the pressure of Ernest’s arousal against his own. He let Ernest take off his sweater and shirt, no longer feeling afraid of having his scars be seen. Ernest knew what they were now, and he accepted it. There was no reason to hide them anymore.

        “Can I…?” Ernest asked, pausing at the waistband of his jeans. Jascha couldn’t get words out, so he just nodded and allowed his jeans to be pulled off. Ernest did the same, taking off his sweatpants and throwing them over the side of the bed. There was nearly nothing between them now, and he gasped as Ernest brushed his fingers over his boxers. He covered his mouth as Ernest worked them off too. He felt completely exposed, laying naked on top of the blankets, his body illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Ernest caught his eye and smirked slightly as he ran his fingers lightly over his erection, smiling as Jascha had to bite his lip to keep from making a sound. He bent down and kissed him heavily on the lips, guiding his hands down to his hips but pausing right above the band of his shorts.

        “We don’t have to,” Jascha managed to say, catching the slight hesitation in Ernest’s eyes. “I don’t mind stopping,” he said breathily. Ernest shook his head.

        “No, I want to,” he said as he kissed Jascha’s neck. “I’ll take them off.”

        Jascha reluctantly let him pull away for long enough to shake free of his compression shorts. He felt a small sound escape his throat as he felt the unmitigated heat of Ernest’s erection against his own. He felt Ernest grow still, settling against his neck as he lay on top of him. Jascha wrapped his arms around him.

        “Are you okay?” He asked gently, stroking his back lightly. “We can stop. Or take a break.” He felt Ernest kiss his neck. He let him lay quietly for a few seconds.

        “I’m okay now,” he said. He moved so that he was laying beside Jascha instead of on top of him. “I want you to touch me,” he whispered.

        Jascha kissed him on the lips, propping himself up overtop of him on one arm. He placed light kisses down his neck and along his clavicle, feeling Ernest grow hard again as he kissed the center of his sternum. He ran his fingers down his stomach, following them closely with his lips. He looked up at Ernest before doing anything below his navel. His freckled cheeks were flushed a brilliant pink and he looked at him with his melted chocolate gaze, nodding ever so slightly.

        Jascha couldn’t bring himself to do what he would have done before. It would be too much like grabbing him; too evocative of the crime Mason committed. He loved Ernest, more deeply and desperately than he’d previously thought he was capable of. He’d kiss every inch of him if it meant communicating that to him, so he kissed the base of his erection.

        He pulled away as Ernest sat up and tangled his hands in his hair. “Was that wrong?” He asked quietly. Ernest had his eyes closed and his brow drawn in what could either be pain or pleasure.

        “No,” Ernest said breathlessly, “It’s great. Please don’t stop.”

        Jascha kissed him again, this time adding his hand gently. He listened to Ernest’s body, noting the pressure as he pulled his hair; the heat and intensity of his skin. He let himself explore what made his breath catch, noting that if he got overstimulated by something he’d process it by tangling his hands further in Jascha’s hair. He liked the feedback; he liked knowing what made Ernest feel good, and he wanted to make him feel better.

        “Have you ever had a blow job before?” Jascha asked between breaths.

        “What?” Ernest asked hazily. He looked at Jascha with half-lidded eyes. Jascha watched the gears turn slowly in his head. “Ashley tried it once,” he said absently.

        “Do you want me to try?” Jascha asked gently, kissing his hip.

        “I…” Ernest gripped his hair tighter. “Yeah,” he nodded.

        Jascha hesitated for only a second. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he knew Ernest. And he knew that this was something that he wanted to do forhim. He took him in his mouth as much as he could, using his hand to make up the difference. He felt himself get hard as Ernest let out a barely-stifled moan. With his free hand he worked his own cock in time to the pace he knew Ernest liked.

        It wasn’t too long before Jascha felt comfortable with what he was doing and found a good rhythm between his hand, mouth, and tongue. As he got more confident, Ernest started to move differently; adjusting his grip on Jascha’s hair or shifting as his body tensed. Jascha knew this meant he was close, and he deepened his movements, knowing that Ernest favored pressure over speed when he was close. His breath became sharp and quick as though he were running, and Jascha felt Ernest’s back arch, followed soon after by the sweet shock of his orgasm. His pace slowed and grew gentle as he let him ride out the waves before he pulled away. As he did, he knew from the wetness in his other hand that he came too.

        “Jascha,” Ernest panted once words returned. He didn’t speak so much as reach for him, and Jascha came up to lay beside him. “Do you want me to…”

        “I, uh,” Jascha blushed. “I already did.” Ernest nodded and reached for the tissue box by the bed, holding it to him. He gladly accepted it. Once clean, he let Ernest tuck them both under the blankets, snuggling against him.

        “How do you feel?” Jascha asked gently, caressing Ernest’s cheek with his hand. Ernest smiled sleepily and kissed Jascha’s hand.

        “Pretty good,” Ernest whispered with a smile. “You?”  
Jascha nodded. “Yes,” he said dreamily. “I feel good.”

        “Good,” Ernest said softly as he nestled his head between Jascha’s chest and shoulder, leaning against him as he started to drift to sleep.

        “Ernest?”

        “Mhm?”

        “I love you. Very much,” Jascha said sweetly, kissing the top of Ernest’s head. His hair always smelled a little bit like cinnamon. It made Jascha feel safe and calm.

        “I love you, too,” Ernest said sleepily. “Like, a whole lot. You’re kind of the best.”

        Jascha held him a little tighter, letting the words sink into his skin. He felt the horror of the previous night peel away, and with it some of the trauma of the month. Ernest was okay. He ate food and was finally going to go to sleep before three in the morning. He loved Ernest, and somehow Ernest loved him, even if he was technically dead. He loved him even if it meant facing Victor’s wrath; even though loving him was dangerous and opened him to the torment of monsters like Mason. If Ernest could be brave enough to love him, then he could be brave enough to learn to love his new life. He’d make friends. He already had Henry. He could find his parents. And maybe, just maybe, he would play violin again.


	34. Little Shifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry talks to Alphonse. Victor reads about himself. Jascha wants his parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thank you, as always, for hanging with us! We adore hearing from you. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of panic, conversations about suicide, general anxiety/dread

        “Uncle Henry, can we read the Silmarillion next?” William asked as he sat on the edge of his bed. Henry wracked his head for the memory. There were so many elves and all their names sounded the same and the plot was so thick. Thick with elves.

        “Yeah, bud. I can try.” Henry sat next to him as he snuggled under his covers. “Aren’t you like...supposed to brush your teeth and stuff.”

        William smiled sheepishly. “Do I really have to? It’s just one time and I’m soooo comfy.” He was really milking it.

        “Yes, you do. You really have to,” Henry gave him a small smile as he shuffled away to the bathroom.

        The room seemed abnormally small compared to the rest of the Frankenstein house mostly because William had filled it to the brim. Over every wall there were posters for old bands and book signings that had come and gone. Mixed in were a few drawings, done in pencil, of the Greek heroes. Henry wondered if anyone had ever told William that he was quite a good artist. On every shelf there were trophies from soccer games and ribbons for spelling bees. Notes from his friends littered his desk and floor. It was sweet to see that one of the Frankenstein kids had their act together.

        “I’ve brought you a present,” William announced as he strode through the door, hands clasped behind his back.

        “A present? For me? When it’s only two days away from your birthday? How sweet,” Henry smiled and looked on at the boy expectantly. It was probably something he had picked up on a walk somewhere or another book he wanted Henry to read.

        “Close your eyes,” William commanded, nose stuck in the air like a prince.

        “You really don’t have to--”

        “Close them.”

        Henry happily complied. It was a happy shift from the hellfire of last night. William placed something small and soft in his hands.  

        “What have I given you?” William asked. Henry was about to open his eyes to check, but was caught. “No peeking!”

        “Well. It’s soft is filled with...I don’t know, hard beans or something...maybe rice. So, I deduce that you have given me a stuffed animal. Where you got it from or why is completely beyond me.” Henry curled his fingers around the torso of the creature and had the strange feeling that he actually knew exactly what it was.

        “More specific,” William urged. “I got it from Victor’s room.” There was a tense break. “There’s still blood everywhere.” Henry was about to get up and go clean, but William put a hand on his wrist. “It’s fine. Dad will deal with it soon.”

        Henry settled back down. “Well, I feel a lot of little legs and a tail that kinda flares out like a butterfly wing,” Henry explained. “He has little eyes on top of stalks and a lot of little whispers. And claws. Would I be correct in guessing,” he asked. “That this is Sir Percival?”

        William clapped his hands and hopped next to Henry. “It is!”

        Henry opened his eyes and turned the crayfish over in his hands. The bright red fabric stood out against his skin. “I didn’t know you knew about Sir Percival.”

        “I don’t actually,” he said. “Victor just talks to him sometimes when you aren’t around.”

        “What?” Henry asked.

        “He just chatters away to him as if he were you.” William said, shrugging. “He thinks I don’t notice, but I do.”

        “Do you wanna hear a funny story?” Henry asked.

        “Always,” William wrapped his arms around Henry’s shoulders and snuggled under the covers.

        “So. I went on a three week camping trip with Victor. Alone,” he began.

        “Woah,”

        “Wild, right?”  Henry smiled a real, genuine smile at the memory. “So, we went hiking and we were going to swim in this creek. And I got the bright idea to jump off this bigass rock and I did just fine, but Victor did...less fine and he scared me because I thought he was hurt, you know?” William shook his head. “And I was all upset so he just dove down and got me a crayfish because he knew I thought they were neat. And hence Sir Percival.”

        “You named a crayfish Sir Percival?” William asked, sleep clouding his voice.

        “Victor named a crayfish Sir Percival.” Henry corrected.

        “Victor sounds like a nerd.”

        “Oh, he is. Sometimes he thinks he’s all that but really… he’s just a nerd.” Henry ruffled William’s hair and began to read.

        William fell asleep after a few chapters, but Henry didn’t sleep all night. He supposed he didn’t really sleep last night either, maybe a couple minutes stolen here and there. It was only a matter of time before his body gave out. He was never really one for Victor’s excessive caffeine consumption.

        Henry finally let himself breathe; truly breathe. It felt like copper cords were unraveling from his ribs and spine. He was shocked when his body didn’t fall apart. It was the type of breathing that usually came with tears, but Henry had none. What else was there to cry about? His Victor was gone and replaced with a monster. The monster was sleeping in his father’s study surrounded by broken glass and vomit. The monster was probably cold and afraid.

        But Victor would come back. Someday he would.  He came back from Ingolstadt and that was worse...probably. Henry couldn’t tell anymore. He just remembered the look on Victor’s face that cut past granite and the cries of his name that wasn’t really his.

        He gently moved William off his chest, careful to not wake the sleeping boy. It was difficult to move quietly through the house, but he still knew which floorboards creaked and could plan accordingly. In Victor’s room there was a blanket folded at the foot of his bed. William was right, there was still blood everywhere. He grabbed the blanket and then stole Alphonse’s keys. It wasn’t difficult. They had been on the same hook since Henry was six years old.

        Inside the study, Victor was curled in a tight ball. His back was pressed into the corner and every muscle seemed to be on high alert. Henry unfurled the blanket and placed it over his shoulders. Victor flinched and for a moment, Henry was terrified that he would wake up from this so-called sleep. Henry was able to sneak away without much trouble.

        If he sat down again he felt like he might destroy himself. He busied himself with cleaning Victor’s room. He was able to change the sheets after a few aborted attempts that ended in him throwing up in the bathroom, but after Victor’s blood was gone, the situation became much more bearable. He organized Victor’s desk and put all his papers into piles based on subject matter and date, if he could figure it out. That entire ordeal took him almost three hours.

        At some point or another, he found his way back to William’s room where he pretended to sleep. The early hours of the morning passed without so much as a sound, but Henry could hear when Victor woke up and when Alphonse went to take him to Konig.

        “Okay, buddy.” He gently shook William’s shoulder. “Time to get ready for school.”

        “But Dad wouldn’t even notice,” he whined.

        “Too bad, it’ll be fun,” Henry tried to smile as William looked on disapprovingly. “Plus you’ll get to see Isabella and the rest of your friends.”

        “Yeah, okay, I guess.” William grumbled and he got ready.

        Henry went downstairs and something in the back of his mind told him to eat, but he didn’t really want to. Maybe later. He grabbed some cleaning supplies and attacked Alphonse’s office. The vomit had to be the first to go. The smell of it had started to permeate from the small room to the rest of the floor. Next was the glass. It was obvious that Alphonse had tried to clean it all up, but with the storm of Victor, it wasn’t surprising that some got left behind. Snowglobe goo and ripped up photographs were next. It was the one of his mother. Henry felt something stab through his heart. Victor would have never and yet…

        Henry thought he was done, until he saw a dot of blood on the corner of Alphonse’s desk. It was an easy enough fix. Then he saw another on the side of the cabinet and then another on the wall. The next fifteen minutes were spent playing hide and seek with Victor’s blood. Henry wanted to sob, but couldn’t. What was this?

        “I see you’ve found your way into my study,” Alphonse said. Henry turned around and clasped his hands behind his back.

        “I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have taken your keys. It was just getting really bad and the more I thought about it--”

        “It’s okay, Henry. I appreciate it, actually.” Alphonse gave him a sad smile as he sat down in his chair, which Henry had cleaned of more than just a drop of blood. “Are you ready to talk?”

        “Umm, yeah... I mean. I don’t know how...umm.” It dawned on Henry that he didn’t really want to tell Alphonse what happened, but he knew he must. “It’s...tomorrow’s William’s birthday and Victor and I were going to do something really nice...well, I guess I’m going to do something nice...”

        “Henry, what do you--”

        “And I guess I just wanted to know if it would be okay if we...you know, like, me, Ernest, and Jascha...took him out to do something fun. And I don’t know…”

        “Yes, Henry, of course, but--”

        “But I still don’t know what I’m going to get him and at this point it might be too late. But I don’t really know and I was wondering if maybe you had any ideas or...I don’t know...maybe--”

        Alphonse gently grabbed Henry’s hand, stopping his nonsensical rambling. “Is this what you really wanted to talk about?”

        “No,” Henry’s voice broke into a keen. There they were; the tears. “I’m so scared and I don’t know what to do and now I know that he thinks I’m--” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

        “Victor doesn’t know what he thinks. He’s sick, Henry,” his voice was warm and the safest place Henry knew.

        “What if that just means he doesn’t have a filter anymore?” he bit his lips against his struggling voice. “What if he’s right?”

        “Henry, what did he say?”

        He broke into a new set of sobs. “He called me a f...he called me…” he couldn’t do it, but Alphonse knew. His face hardened. “He said that’s the only thing I am and...and that’s all my work is. And he said I want to, need to, suffer but I don’t. I just don’t want to be in pain anymore.” He tried to take deep breaths but it was impossible, reliving that entire conversation.

        Alphonse’s expression was unreadable save for his eyes. They echoed with all the grief and pain that came crashing down. His warm skin was comforting against Henry’s hand.

        “I know Victor doesn’t believe that. He loves you very much. I’m just not sure what I’m going to do.” Never, in as long as Henry had known him, had Alphonse been unsure.

        “Then why?” He was desperate for something, anything that could take the hurt away.

        “I don’t know. I’m sorry, Henry, I really don’t.” Alphonse sighed and looked away. “I had told him in the car that I didn’t know how I was going to console you and I don’t. I’m sorry I’ve failed you.”

        “You didn’t do anything,” Henry tried to comfort him.

        “I know. I’ll do better next time.” There was a span of silence before Alphonse laughed, dry and joyless. “He told me he raised Jascha from the dead. He doesn’t believe anything he said about you.”

        “He did.” Henry’s tone dropped.

        “What?” Alphonse sat down and covered his mouth with his fingertips.

        “He really did raise bring Jascha back to life.” Henry knelt in front of the desk and let his misery wash over him. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t help make this any easier.”

        “Henry, you have done so much to make sure William and Ernest have been okay throughout this ordeal and I am incredibly grateful to have you in this house. Can you ever forgive me?” Alphonse met Henry’s eyes. There were tears.

        “Forgive you for what?”

        “For not being a better father for Victor.” Henry’s placed a light hand on Alphonse’s shoulder.

        “Of course you’re forgiven. You did the best that you could.” He pulled Alphonse into a hug. “Is Victor going to come home?”

        “I don’t know what Dr. Konig is going to want him to do,” there was a beat and he pressed his face into Henry’s hair. “Do you want him to?”

        “I do,” Henry sobbed into his shoulder. “I just want my Victor to come home.”

 

* * *

 

        “Here we are again.” Konig smiled pleasantly.

        Victor forced a nod even as he felt any movement at all would shatter his stiff body to pieces. “Yup.” He answered hoarsely. “Here we are.”

        The room still smelled like overcooked sausage and the seat still stuck to his bare skin like an overripe peach, the small space reflecting back to him with the same certainty that it had held since he first entered it at seven years old. It was comforting, he guessed, in an odd way that the only discernible difference between then and now was the presence of a new toaster on top of the tilting filing cabinet.

        “What have we been up to this time, Viktor?” Konig reached over and shoved some wonder bread in said toaster.

        “I, uh.” Victor paused. “Do I have to say? I assumed you got the whole talk from Dad.”

        “I did.” Konig assured him. “But this is part of the process, yes?”

        Victor nodded loosely. “Okay...well…” He took a deep breath. “Yeah, I can’t do this without puking.”

        “Hm.” Konig replied absently as he fished his breakfast out of the toaster with a metal fork. “There’s a bucket right there.” He kicked a foot towards the mesh metal waste bin, which Victor eyed doubtfully.

        “Well. I’m doing pretty bad. I’ve, uh,” he choked slightly on the words, but yanked himself through, “done some things, said some things, irremediable things…” He let his eyes flick back to Konig, in the hopes that the man would take pity on him, only to see the therapist’s attention devoted fully to buttering his burnt toast.

        “Hey,” Victor interjected, “aren’t we supposed to be, like, deciding my fate here?”

        “Indeed we are, my dear boy.” He took a large bite of the toast, a bit of melted butter dribbling down his chin. He waved a hand. “Talk.”

        “How am I supposed to discuss the biggest breakdown of my life with you chowing down over there?” Victor protested indignantly.

        “You’ll manage, I’m sure.” Konig raised an eyebrow. “Besides, I feel I deserve a bit of luxury this morning. I did have to come in on my day off, after all. I should be home in my bed with my wife.”

        “You’re married?” Victor felt woozy. “To who? Your dark patron?”

        “A mortician.” Konig smiled at him. “You are deflecting again, Viktor.”

        Victor hugged his knees to his chest. “Yeah. I know.” Even the small shift sent shots of racing hot wires sparking up and down his spine. He was so poorly bent and frayed, he felt like the equivalent of a walking corpse. And not even a good one like Jascha; an ammatre assembly, a cobbled together mesh of tapered veins and licorice stitching. He took a deep breath. “Can we discuss treatment first.”

        “Did you have something in mind?”

        “Yes.” Victor replied.

        “Very well.” Konig took another bite of his toast and set it aside, pulling Victor’s thick file from the filing cabinet. “Procede.”

        “I think everyone just needs to let me die.”

        Konig stopped and glanced up to Victor. It was impossible to read his expression behind the mask of professionalism and bottle-thick glasses. “And why do you think that?” He asked, voice maintaining lightness. He reached for the toast once more and finished it in two bites.

        “I mean,” Victor wrapped himself tighter in a meager attempt to avoid picking at his crawling skin, “it would be a good solution.”

        “For you?”

        “For me, for everyone.” He rushed forward. “It’s a perfect solution. It’s the only way I have that can guarantee that I will never hurt anyone ever again. If I’m disposed of, Jascha and Ernest get to move on with their lives unbothered, Elizabeth doesn’t have to keep loving me, my dad can focus on raising his actual sons, and Henry…” Victor glanced to one side, biting his lip, “...Henry can finally find someone who will take care of him.”

        “Don’t you do that?” Konig said.

        “Not well.” Victor laughed bitterly. “Not well enough. Barely at all, actually.”

        Konig turned his gaze from Victor to the file in his lap and began flipping through it like a magazine. “So…” he paused to read a section before moving on, “you want to commit suicide.”

        “No.” Victor said quickly. “I don’t want to do it. I want someone else to.”

        “That’s not how it works.”

        “I’m aware.”

        As Konig continued to delve into the file, the heavy silence was broken only by the occasional pulling of paper. “Will you do it? If no one else will?”

        “I…” Victor shrugged, ignoring the painful twinge in his shoulder. Sleeping on the floor probably wasn’t his best idea. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

        “But probably not.”

        “Yeah.” Victor grimaced. “Probably not.” He tried for a moment to imagine how he could accomplish it. Sleeping pills would be biologically effective and nonpainful. A knife would add a dramatic flair. Both ideas were abhorrent and unbearable.

        Konig met Victor’s eye and, somehow, smiled earnestly. “You know, it is not often that I get to compare my patients to Hamlet, but I think you may just fit the bill, Viktor. Inaction to the extreme of action. Consequences never named as such. Even the morbid devotion to death fits, although you are far more inclined to fear it than celebrate it.”

        Victor squirmed in his seat. “Guess that makes poor Henry Horatio, right?”

        “I can see it.” Konig said. He pulled couples of sheets of paper from Victor’s file and stacked them to one side. “I cannot aid you in your quest for death, Viktor. Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

        “I don’t know.” Under the doctor’s piercing scrutiny, Victor buried his face into his knees. “I just don’t want to go home.”

        “Why not? Do you assume no one wishes you to be there?”

        “No, they do.” Victor could feel himself once more returning to the edge of exhausted tears and dug his eye sockets deep enough into his knees as to bruise. “That’s the problem. They all still love me and I don’t understand. The only one smart enough to fight out of it was Ernest and even then, he’ll go with what Dad says. Why don’t they all hate me?”

        “Do you want them to hate you?” Konig asked.

        “Yes.”

        “Is that why you said what you did to Jascha and Henry? And your father?”

        “Yes...no.” Victor whined. “I don’t know. I don’t know why I said what I said, I just did. I just...I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t want to stop myself.” He forced himself to look up through clouded eyes. “I’m just so angry. All the time. And I don’t know why. I don’t have a reason to be.”

        Konig hummed. “Was everything you said these last few days thoughts that you’d explored prior?”

        “Yes.”

        “Often?”

        “Yes.”

        “Why do you think this is the case?”

        Victor hesitated. He didn’t really have an answer to that. Or, at least, not one that didn’t sound damning in the extreme. How was he supposed to explain, after all, that the thoughts just came to him unbidden? When he was mad or frustrated or when he was thinking through how to get his way and his mind immediately ran to manipulation. How was he supposed to explain that he’d started thinking of Henry like  that  as a way to comfort himself through high school, constant assurances that while he was crazy at least he wasn’t a fag? How was he supposed to justify anything he’d said when, at some point or another, he’d believed it all fully and truly. When he still believed most of what he’d said to Jascha, even though he knew it was wrong to. Konig scratched some notes on the edge of a new piece of paper and added it to the stack.

        “I’m a bad person.”

        “So you’ve said.” Konig replied. “And you aim to fix that?”

        “I can’t.” Victor said. “I don’t know how. I tried, but I just can’t seem to.”

         “I see.” Konig picked up the assembled bundle of papers, stood, and crossed the room to Victor’s couch. “Uncurl yourself.”

        Victor shot him a fearful look. “Why?”

        Konig patted his knee and made no reply. Victor slowly forced his arms to relax then his legs, ripping them apart and letting each drop heavily.

        “Good.” Konig sat beside him and dropped the papers onto his lap. “Now. I am going to go make a Starbucks run. Read over those while I’m gone. I shan't be long.”

        Victor watched him go, half flabbergasted. Did Dr. Konig seriously just leave mid session to go get a peppermint mocha? God, he must be even more unbearable than he thought.

        He sat for a moment in the overwhelming silence of abandoned office, shivering beneath the half-drawn window and the clutter, before pushing his focus to the packet in his lap. With quivering hands, he picked up the first sheet and began the impossible work of deciphering Konig’s shorthand cursive.

_ Victor Frankenstein, age 7: _

_         Today Victor came in to talk to me about a small spat he’d had in class. An older boy was picking on a friend of his, Henry, for being too much of a ‘crybaby.’ Victor seems quite proud that he managed to bite the boy five time before he was pulled away. _

Victor frowned. He remembered that incident. He’d gotten detention for a month. He flipped to the next page.

         _Victor Frankenstein, age 9:_

                 _Problems with communication. There was an incident involving the younger_

_ brother, Ernest. Victor could not stop crying long enough to tell me what happened, but his father informs me that the incident was reconciled. Victor appeared remorseful and quiet. _

_         Victor Frankenstein, age 10: _

_                 Victor has come to understand that I will keep secrets from his parents and will now trust me with more delicate information. Today, he informed me that he has reason to believe his friend is being abused and asked for my guidance in addressing the situation. He has, thankfully, taken my advice for the time and will not attempt to challenge his friend’s father to a duel. He has agreed to investigate first aid practices instead. _

       _Victor Frankenstein, age 11:_

_                 Victor has taken a supreme interest in medicine under the assumption that such a practice will be able to help him with Henry’s injuries. He has begun to talk about becoming a doctor. Since doctors make a lot of money, he assumes that such a practice will allow him to provide for Henry’s poetry. He still appears unaware that most ‘friends’ do not live together as adults. _

_         Victor Frankenstein, age 14: _

_                 Henry now lives with Victor full time. Victor devotes the majority of our sessions to talking about how to manage trauma responses and nightmares. I have recommended him several books. None of these issues appear to be reflective of his own. _

    _Victor Frankenstein, age 16:_

_                 In this session, Victor admitted to me that he believes he may be bisexual. He appeared terrified of the notion and made several instances that he could not be because ‘his sister is and it’s a scientific fact that only one person can be gay within a family unit.’ After a bit of digging, it became more clear that he fears for his and Henry’s relationship. Henry has feelings for him and Victor is convinced that the other would abandon him if he knew Victor felt the same. He speaks constantly of how Henry deserves better than him. He leaves for Ingolstadt in nine weeks. _

        The entries stretched on and on, a mess of different ages and different incidents. As Victor paged through them, he realized the majority were about Henry. And by the majority, he meant about seven hundred or so entries stretched over eleven years. He hesitated and flicked to one particular date.

_ Victor Frankenstein, age 23: _

_                 Victor is back in my office once more, this time on account of an incident involving the assault of an officer. Details appear hazy and to follow, but like many previous events, the root of his actions lie with Henry. As I had feared, the man seems to be in a relapse, once more consumed with his relative status as a ‘bad person.’ We have settled on a treatment program which will allow him to remain at home and with Henry. Separation at this point appears unwise. Victor appears determined, however, which I take as a good sign. _

        Victor swallowed the guilt in the back of his throat and let his eyes skim over the brief notes of the last week. As he predicted, the current day’s notes were included in the packet.

_ Victor Frankenstein, age 23: _

_                 Predicted secondary relapse. Root in this case is unclear. Perhaps the stress of his brother’s arrival home triggered something deeper. Issues apparent between Henry and Victor. Suicidal ideation present in varied amounts. Victor appears unaware of how much his tone and manner has shifted. His thoughts now appear to lie entirely with insuring the ease of his family and righting his wrongs. Movement away from selfish attempts to insure attention and continued love. I take this as a good sign. I hope you will as well, Victor. _

Victor dropped the page as if it had burned him and pulled his knees back to his chest with a violent motion. He stared at the paper. Fucking Konig. That man was going to give him a heart attack.

        “Having fun?” The door swung open and Konig appeared holding two coffees. He attempted to pass one to Victor, who looked at him with suspicion.

        “Mind reader.” He hissed. “Wizard.”

        “So you don’t want the coffee?” Konig smiled.

        Victor took the coffee.

        “So,” Konig settled himself back in the chair, “any enlightenments, Hamlet?”

        “I was a weird fucking kid?” Victor muttered.

        “Beyond that.”

        Victor frowned. “You’re reminding me of how obsessed I was with Henry when I was younger. That’s not a good thing. If I hadn't been so intent on making sure I was Henry’s only lifeline, he might actually be happy. He might actually have had the guts to leave me.”

        Konig offered him a careless shrug. “As you said.” He took a sip of the coffee. “So. What am I telling your father?”

        Victor hefted the paper trail, the written record of everything he’d taken from Henry over the course of his life, the evidence of how fucked up he was, and the analog of everything he’d given to Henry too. Everything that was before. Everything that should have been but wasn’t.

        “I have to go home, don’t I.” Victor said weakly.

        Konig didn’t respond. It wasn’t a question, after all. Eventually, however, he added. “I cannot recommend that if your suicidal thoughts are a continuing presence.”

        “I won’t go through with them.”

        “And you’re sure of that?”

        Victor drew a tired grin out from the depths of his being. “I’m a coward, remember?”

        “I don’t think you’re a coward, Viktor.” Konig answered surely. “You’re just suffering from Hamlet’s disease.”

        “Can I get a diagnosis on that?” Victor leaned forward. “Is there a treatment?”

        “Find a skull. Lament death. Be kind to your Horatio. And call me in nine days if you haven’t been stabbed by a jealous rival yet.”

        An unwilling laugh yanked its way from Victor’s throat, so apart from the maniacal crackles he’d been bound to the last few days that it shocked him back to silence. It felt like a burst of relief. “I, uh.” He cleared his throat. “I think I can arrange that.” He paused. “And what about the thoughts?”

        For the first time since he entered the office, Konig’s expression relaxed into something readable. Sympathy. “You know, Viktor, sometimes I think about stabbing my wife.”

        Victor drew back into the couch, eyes wide. “What!? Why!?”

        “Because she makes me mad sometimes.” Konig shrugged. “Mad like I imagine you get mad at Ernest and Henry and your father. And it is the easiest way out of the anger; to lash out. To eliminate the source of whatever strong emotion you are experiencing. That being said, I love my wife beyond words. I would never, in a million centuries, bring harm upon her. But the thoughts remain. Now, tell me, do you think I’m a bad person?”

        “I don’t know.” Victor said. “Maybe?”

        Konig leveled him with a small grimace. “Maybe indeed. Maybe I am a bad person, too, then. But, as I said, I do not act on my badness. I keep it inside, I find other outlets. I present only goodness to those around me. I am confident you will learn to do the same with time and practice.”

        “Even if its a lie?” Victor saw but did not feel the papers in his lap being lifted away. A gentle hand rested on his shoulder.

        “What is a lie, but a good place to start?” Konig patted his shoulder. “Now,” he plucked the untouched coffee from Victor’s weak grasp and placed it on the side table, “I will call your father to take you home. I am advising that you continue to maintain your own space for the duration of a week in order to give yourself room to be alone and to give those around you as much distance as they crave. Use caution in what you allow yourself to be surrounded with. We will be continuing outpatient on Tuesday and I am switching you to a nine hour, six day a week schedule. We also be taking another look at your medications. If you have any issues in the meantime, give me a call. I am always happy to accept whatever bribe your father will give me to work overtime.” He grinned as he held the door open for Victor. “You, Viktor, will single handedly fund my children’s college careers.”

        “You have children too!” Victor cried. “What the hell?!”

         “Why is it so disturbing to you that I have a life, Viktor?” Konig asked with petty amusement. “Did you assume I lived in my office?”

        Victor shoved his hands in his pockets and refused to meet Konig’s eyes. “No…”

        “Would you care to hear about my children for a moment?”

        “No. Maybe. Uh, yeah?”

        “Yes?” Konig asked.

        “Yes.”

        Konig laughed heartily and clapped Victor’s shoulder, nearly sending him tumbling over. “In that case, I’ll just say this. While you, Viktor, may be unfamiliar with my family, they are very familiar with you. My daughter, Lin, finds you an absolute disgrace to be associated with.”

        Victor felt the blood drain from his face faster than he could hold onto it. “Lin?” He was sure his voice was shaking. “You’re, uh, Lin’s…”

        “Dad, yes.” Konig smiled. “She does not approve of you keeping naked men in your lab, by the way.”

        Victor took a step back, thin smile still plastered across his face as he readied himself to run.

        Konig laughed loudly once more. “Bah, Viktor, do not look so panicked. I am told she corrected the issue. It remains our little secret, yes, your sex habits?”

        “Ha! Yeah, my- uh, my sex habits!” Victor said a bit too loudly. “What can I say, I’m, um, I’m really into BDSM! I’m…” he took another step, “I’m gonna wait in the lobby for my dad. Bye, Dr. Konig.”

        Victor did not stop pacing the lobby for the entire hour it took for his father to come retrieve him.

 

* * *

  

        He felt fine when he woke up. He and Ernest were tangled in each other’s limbs, as was the norm when they shared any bed smaller than a king, and that felt good. He showered, which was also good. Ernest ate a big breakfast, which was better than good. Victor somehow seemed to either be out of the house or no longer shattering things, which was nice. Henry seemed marginally better, as did Alphonse. William talked to him more about some Greek dude with a weird name. That was...normal?

        Jascha kept listing all the things as he paced in the piano room. Piano was good. Ernest was good. The giant house was good. He didn’t feel that bad about Victor, which was good. Everything seemed fine.

        “Jascha?” Jascha jumped and backed into the piano, hitting some of the keys. His chest heaved and he was met with a now-equally startled Ernest. “Jesus! What’s the matter?”

        “Nothing.” Jascha stood up, fixed his sweater. He swept his hair back.

        “Bullshit,” Ernest said gently. “I saw you pacing. And talking to yourself.”

        “Nope. I’m fine.” Jascha could barely hear Ernest over the pounding in his ears. “I do that normally. How are you?”

        Ernest came in and sat on the piano bench. His hair was wet, which meant he’d just showered. “I’m pretty okay. Victor is at therapy, or so William said.” Ernest must have caught Jascha glancing towards the door, because he reached out and took his hand. “He won’t be back for a few hours. Chill.”

        Jascha didn’t look at Ernest, but instead at the landline. He could see it by the stairs. “Yup. I’m calm,” he said absently. He turned back to Ernest. “How are you?”

        “You just asked me that,” Ernest patted the spot on the bench next to him. “Seriously, what’s up? You’re all jumpy and weird.”

        “I’m not.” Jascha said defensively. Ernest patted the spot again and he sat down.

        “No offense, but you’re kinda awful at lying,” Ernest said with a smile. “Spill.”

        Jascha considered holding fast to his claim of being okay, or to just come up with a real lie. He could be worried about Henry. That would be convincing. Especially given the fact that he’d disappeared upstairs after lunch. Ernest was looking at him, though, and his eyes were soft and warm and inviting.

        “I...miss my mom. And my dad.” Jascha said quickly. His brow furrowed as he saw relief wash across Ernest’s face.

        “Oh, that’s normal.” Ernest said gently. “I miss my dad sometimes, too.”

        “It’s not!” Jascha said miserably. “My parents think I’m dead! Ernest, I don’t know if they’re okay, or where they are, or-” Jascha could feel himself hyperventilating as he spoke. His hands were tingling, and his mouth felt suddenly dry. He stood up, but felt dizzy. “I need to go,” he said quickly. His vision felt spotty, and he didn’t notice when Ernest got up and helped him sit back down. He clamped his eyes shut and held his head in his hands.

        “It’s okay,” Ernest’s voice was steady, but it barely cut through the static. Jascha couldn’t bring himself to breathe for fear that he might break down and cry. “Jascha, breathe,” Ernest said firmly. Jascha shook his head. It had been years since his last real panic attack, which only made it scarier. He couldn’t remember what his mother or his therapist had taught him. Something about holding still or finding a quiet place to think. It was quiet here, and he was still, and he was still panicking.

        He drew a sharp breath in despite himself, but he couldn’t get himself to breathe out again. He felt Ernest’s hand on the back of his neck. It was cool against his skin. He didn’t want to be seen, though. Not by him, not like this. He wasn’t supposed to do this anymore; it was supposed to be over and done with.

        “Breathe,” Ernest said again. He didn’t sound upset. “Come on, my dude. It’s okay.”

        Jascha shook his head again, but felt Ernest shift. He was now kneeling in front of him, and pulled him against his chest. This helped block out the light, which helped him feel less visible. He exhaled hesitantly, and he felt Ernest breathe too.

        “...I think my mom might have killed herself,” Jascha finally managed a whisper. As he spoke, the tears started. Ernest didn’t move or let him go, but stroked the nape of his neck gently.

        “I don’t think that’s likely,” Ernest said softly. Jascha shook his head again.

        “You don’t understand,” Jascha said into his hands. “I don’t think she’d be able to survive it. She-she’s like me. She gets really nervous.”

        “But she has your dad, right?” Ernest whispered. Jascha could feel his voice as he nodded into his chest. “He would probably have kept her safe, then.”

        “But what if he couldn’t?” Jascha cried. “I couldn’t keep you safe. What if she stopped eating? Or sleeping? People die if they don’t sleep.”

        “You did keep me safe,” Ernest said after a pause. Jascha could feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and he tried his best to breathe in time with him. “Have you tried calling them?”

        “How would I have?” Jascha curled tighter in on himself. “What would I say?”

        Ernest kissed the top of his head, and Jascha relaxed by a fraction. The tears, at least, were starting to subside. “The truth?”

        “Who would believe me?” Jascha said weakly. He was wrong. The tears were absolutely not subsiding. “I don’t even look the same. How would they even recognize me?”

        “Only your eyes are different, right?” Ernest asked quietly. His voice was gentle and measured. “Your hair is the same color, right?”

        Jascha nodded. His hair was nearly the same, just longer. “My eyes were important. And my hands. They mattered to my mom.”

        There was a long pause, and Ernest sighed. “Okay...I’m about to say something gross. Is that okay?” He asked hesitantly. Jascha nodded. “Maybe Victor...kept them? Your hands and eyes. He...always liked collecting, uh, stuff. Gross stuff.” Disgust was clear in his voice. “Not that your eyes and hands are gross. Victor is, though.” Ernest added apologetically.

        “I just don’t understand why he’d change them,” Jascha agonized. “What was wrong with them? I didn’t need glasses. If he could bring me back to life, why couldn’t he fix whatever was wrong with my hands? Why didn’t he like my eyes? My mom--she’s never going to accept that it’s me unless I look like her son, even if I’m alive-” Jascha felt the numbness rising in his hands again, and the shortness of breath, but he couldn’t stop, “Did he just think they were ugly? Ernest, did he get rid of my eyes just because he didn’t like how they looked? Am I going to lose my family now, just because of-of...aesthetics?! Why would he--”

        “Jascha, you need to breathe again,” Ernest interrupted, holding Jascha tighter. “What color were your eyes before? Are these ones really so different?”

        “Hazel. My eyes were hazel,” Jascha said stiffly.

        “They sound pretty. Hazel is a nice color,” Ernest stroked his hair. “What about your hands? I don’t really think of hands as being defining features…”

        “She’s a musician,” Jascha said softly. “I had hands like hers. Long, delicate fingers. Now I have ugly meat hands.” Jascha said bitterly.

        “Your hands aren’t ugly,” Ernest said firmly. “Nothing about you is ugly.”

        “But I’m not me,” Jascha said sadly, leaning against Ernest’s touch. “Victor changed the two things that made me look like me…”

        “But you still have the same face,” Ernest said sweetly. “And you have the same hair. You’re the same height, and I’m assuming close to the same weight.”

        “But I don’t have my hands,” Jascha repeated. “I need them. I need them back so I can play the violin.” He finally felt calm enough to sit up and look at Ernest, who looked back with calm, gentle eyes. “I need them back.” He said firmly.

        “Okay, so here’s my wild, totally crazy idea,” Ernest said seriously. “What if we ask Victor about it? If he kept them...he can probably put them back?” They both recoiled.

        Jascha nodded, wiped his eyes, and took a confident breath. “Okay.”

        “Okay?” Ernest raised an eyebrow.

        “Once he’s home from whatever he’s doing I’m going to ask.” Jascha nodded again. That made sense. He felt like that made sense. “Yup. That’s the plan.”

        “Okay, my dude, here’s the thing,” Ernest looked concerned. Why did he look concerned? He suggested it. Jascha felt concerned now, too, and he could feel the doubt and worry building again. “Victor is a little bit...himself, right? Like, it’s been an insane few days?”

        Jascha nodded. “He’s always like that.”

        Ernest shook his head. “Nah, dude. He’s always a jerk, but he’s not always a psycho. You might wanna wait until we’re comfortably back into his jerk phase.”

        “I want to ask him now,” Jascha couldn’t manage sympathy for Victor. At least, not when it came to his surgical plans. If Victor wanted to have a psychotic episode, that was okay, but Jascha needed to know if he had hands and eyes on ice. “I need to know if he has them. Please, Ernest. I really, really need to call my mom.”

        “Can’t you call and then ask?” Ernest said gently.

        “Nope,” Jascha needed to know that if she wanted to see him, he could see her. They lived in downtown Chicago, so there wouldn’t be an excuse to delay the visit. “They live close by. If I call, they might want to see me. See proof.”

        “Wouldn’t talking to you be proof enough?” Ernest asked gently.

        “No,” Jascha said. Ernest looked at him. Jascha looked back. He wanted him to say more. “I don’t think it would be enough. I’d need to look like me, talk like me, and play the violin like me. I don’t have my hands. I can’t play like me with meat hands.”

        They heard the door open, and the sounds of footsteps. Jascha stood up, but Ernest caught him by the hand. “You need to be unbelievably careful. Like, super gentle.”

        “I’m always gentle,” Jascha said, and he meant it. Ernest let him go, and he walked into the entryway. Alphonse smiled at him, and Victor stared at him like a cornered animal.

        “Hello, Alphonse,” Jascha said politely. He kept an eye on Victor. “Is it okay if I talk to Victor for a minute?”

        Alphonse’s smile fell, and he glanced to Victor, who looked between Jascha and the piano room, where Ernest stood watching from the doorway. Victor nodded slightly to his father, maintaining eye contact with Jascha.

        “If it’s okay with Victor, it’s okay with me.” Alphonse said reluctantly.

        “Where would you like to talk?” Jascha asked Victor, making sure his voice didn’t sound threatening or hostile. “Dining room?” Jascha was proud of himself. He knew where that was, and it was a neutral-ish place. Victor nodded, and followed him.

        No one else trailed them. They were alone, and they sat across the table from one another. Jascha bounced his knee under the table, antsy now that the initial shock of adrenaline was leaving him. He didn’t really  want  to talk. He just wanted to know whether or not he would ever be able to play violin again, or call his parents.

        “Therapy?” Jascha asked clumsily. Probably not his greatest icebreaker.

        “Yep,” Victor said quickly. Jascha nodded.

        “I did that once,” Jascha said quietly. He went to therapy during middle and high school, when his anxiety was at its worst. “Do you like it?”

        “Nope,” Victor said abrasively. Jascha nodded again. “Can we get this over with?” Victor asked, eyes darting towards the door.

        “I need my hands and my eyes,” Jascha said flatly. If Victor wanted him to be direct, he’d be direct. Just like his father taught him.

        “Your what?” Victor blinked.

        “My original hands, and my original eyes,” Jascha said calmly, though he could feel panic gnawing at his throat. He didn’t have a plan beyond this. “I want them back.”

        “Why?” Victor asked, evidently still stunned by the question. “I made you to be perfect, at least physically. Why would I change something that’s perfect?”

        Jascha held up his hands. “ These  are not perfect,” Jascha said rigidly. “These are ugly, scarred, meat hands. I want my old hands.”

        “Your wrists were both shattered in the crash,” Victor said with measured calm. “You hands wouldn’t have healed easily.”

        “But would they heal?” Jascha asked eagerly. “Does that mean you have them?”

        Victor leaned back in his chair. “I have them,” he said after a pause. “But they’re still in pretty bad shape.”

        Jascha thought about it. He’d never broken a bone before. Or rather, a normal, non-fatal bone. Having broken wrists would probably feel bad. “I want you to put them back. On my arms.” He felt revolted by his own words. It would mean letting Victor into his body again. Maybe he could convince Ernest to come with him. That would probably be safe? Unless Victor tried to stab him. In which case, it would be really bad, because Jascha would be anesthetized.

        “You want me to operate on you again?” Victor leaned forward, eyes wide.

        “I want my hands,” Jascha said, commanding himself not to shrink back. “I don’t want you to touch me, but I’ll let you if it means having them again.”

        Victor actually smiled. It was a weird, unhealthy smile, but a smile. Jascha felt a sinking dread in the pit of his stomach. “I would be happy to resume my task as your doctor,” Victor said grimly. Jascha felt the distinct impulse to run away.

        “I want my eyes, too,” Jascha forced himself to speak.

        “I don’t have those,” Victor said easily. Something broke inside Jascha’s chest.

        “What?” He asked. He felt something; grief, maybe?  
        “I threw them out,” Victor said expressionlessly.

        “Why?” Jascha asked weakly. “Why would you do that?”

        “Hazel eyes rub me the wrong way,” Victor said matter of factly. “I’ve only known bad people with hazel eyes.” His words were bitter.

        “But I wasn’t a bad person,” Jascha said with disbelief, “You didn’t even know me.” He felt fear rise in him, and his voice raised slightly. “I need them. I need my eyes to be hazel.”

        “Sorry,” Victor picked at his cuticles, which were crusted over with scabs and old blood from all his panicking. “Not going to happen.”

        Jascha bit the inside of his lip. He didn’t feel rage, not really. He just felt the deep, empty expanse of grief. A piece of himself was gone, and it was a piece that didn’t need to die. He could rationalize the rest, but not his eyes. “They didn’t need to go,” he said softly.

        “No,” Victor admitted. He seemed prickly now; defensive. “Nearsightedness runs on your father’s side, though. You might have needed glasses later on.”

        “I wouldn’t have minded,” Jascha said sadly.

        “It would have been imperfect,” Victor raised an eyebrow, “You get to be perfect. Isn’t that what you always wanted as a kid? To be perfect for your mother and father?”

        Jascha cringed. “I wanted my eyes back so I could see my mother and father,” he said shallowly. “My eyes mattered to them. They mattered to me.”

        Victor paused. Jascha couldn’t effectively read his expression, but it looked for a moment as if he felt remorse. Perhaps Jascha just wished he did and was projecting. Victor sighed. “I can give you your hands back,” he yielded. “I can’t change your eyes. At least, I can’t unless someone with your exact shade of hazel eyes ends up dead in the UChicago morgue. And I don’t really have access to that anymore, so yeah. Not gonna happen.”

        Jascha nodded. “Okay. I want my hands back. When do you want to do it?”

        “Uh, whenever, I guess.” Victor said, feigning disinterest.

        “Your brother has a birthday soon. We’ll do it after that.” Jascha said quickly. He stood up. “The day after. That’s when I’ll let you touch me. And I want to ask Ernest to drive me.”

        He didn’t wait to hear whether or not it was okay to have Ernest there, because he turned and left. He found Ernest waiting for him on the stairs, and he stood when he saw Jascha coming. Jascha ran the last few steps to him and hugged him, burying his face in his shoulder as the tears started. He missed his eyes. He didn’t realize you could miss a part of your body, or grieve for it. But he missed them as he would a dead family member.

        “What’s wrong?” Ernest held him. Jascha straightened up and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He did so just in time to watch Victor slink out of the dining room, looking at them with a bitter mix of resentment and something else that Jascha didn’t have the energy to identify.

        “Nothing,” Jascha said quietly. He felt suddenly self-conscious and let Ernest go. “I’m okay. Can we watch TV or something? Where’s Henry?”

        “Dude, you can’t cry on my shoulder and then tell me nothing’s wrong,” Ernest said with gentle skepticism. “I’ve seen you cry, like, not that often. And only over, like, really bad stuff. What did Victor say?” He said the last part bitterly, shooting a sharp glare at Victor as he sped past them on the stairs.

        “It’s nothing,” Jascha said as he recovered. He managed to shove everything down, picturing it as a nice neat clump of messy feelings deep in his chest. “Please, it’s nothing.”

        Ernest sighed and furrowed his brow, but relented as Jascha squeezed his hand. “Okay. We don’t need to talk about it,” Ernest said reluctantly. “But I know it’s not nothing.”

        Jascha nodded. He could handle withholding information, but not lying. If Ernest knew it wasn’t nothing, then he wasn’t going to keep up the ruse. Especially if he was willing to drop it.  He missed his eyes, but talking about it would only make him miss them more. He just wanted not to think about it. “Okay,” Jascha said softly.

        “Do you want to see if Henry wants to look for more ice skating?” Ernest asked with a smile. Jascha relaxed.

        “Yup,” Jascha followed Ernest up the stairs, thankful that Ernest was letting him get away from the problem for a while. He’d wait to ask Ernest about driving him and Victor back to the lab. He’d also wait to ask both of them if Ernest could be with him for the surgery. He hated talking on a good day, and this was a bad day, so all those questions would need to wait. “Ernest?” Jascha asked as they walked.

        “Yeah?” Ernest looked up at him, relaxed and comfortable.

        “I love you,” Jascha whispered. “Thank you.”

        Ernest blushed slightly and smiled, squeezing his hand quickly, aware that Alphonse was in his study and the door was open. “I’ll always be here for you, and everything’s gonna be fine. I love you, too.”


	35. Waking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry has a nightmare. Victor copes. Jascha comforts Henry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! As always, thanks for sticking with us! We love hearing from you, so please reach out!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Very graphic description of a violent nightmare, typical Jascha anxiety, discussions of past sexual encounters

  Henry hadn’t had a legitimate nightmare in years. Sure, the one about the fire was certainly not pleasant, but it was manageable and Victor was there, so there wasn’t really a problem. They started with his father, of course, and all the awful things he did to him and his mother. They used to be bad enough that Henry would wake up screaming and then Victor would be terrified; terrified enough to drop about fifty pounds of trauma management psych books at his desk. Eventually, though, he got good at coping and they weren't catastrophic anymore. Usually. Every once in a while if Henry stopped taking care of himself, they would creep back, like a cat stalking through yellow fog, and Henry had definitely not been taking care of himself.

        After he talked to Alphonse he wanted to collapse, so he dragged himself to Victor’s room. His sheets were clean but smelled of nothing. It was a jarring switch from the scent of woods and leaves that usually enveloped him when he slept with Victor. He could barely manage the energy to pull the blanket to his waist, so he didn’t and allowed himself to be pulled into sleep.

        It was normal at first, almost comforting. Henry walked the halls of his own house looking for his mother. Everything was big and tall and delicate. All the things he wasn’t supposed to touch seemed to glitter with allure. He knew what happened next.

        There was a book his father had; a leather-bound copy of the Whitman’s poetry; some fancy edition or something with delicate inscriptions. Even dream-Henry couldn’t remember the exact details.

        “Come on, I bet I can climb up the bookshelf,” Victor whispered to him, leaning on his shoulder. They were ten.

        “Victor,” Henry whispered, “If my father finds you he’ll...you’re going to hurt yourself.” But Victor was already halfway up the shelf. His small hands left smudges in the dust. His father would notice. He noticed everything.

        Henry looked to the door. He was having champagne with a statesman. He could see the shadows. Champagne that turned to kissing that turned to more.

        “What is he doing?” Victor asked, suddenly beside him again. He cocked his head to the left. “That’s highly impractical,” he said as he watched Henry’s father be fucked over the table. Other politicians watched and made notes.

        “I don’t know,” Henry whispered and grabbed for the book. “My father will be mad that you have it. Please put it away, Victor. I’ll get in trouble.”

        “How much trouble? It’s just a book. Dad lets me look at his books all the time,” Victor shrugged and pushed the book into Henry’s hands. Victor creeped closer to the loud men. “I wonder if they’ll notice me.”

        “Please come back, please,” he begged.

        “It’s just an experiment, Henry,” Victor said with a smile. With his back turned to Henry, he grabbed the corner of the wall and peered over committing himself to silence.

        “Victor, he’s going to be mad,” he hissed, trying to make himself as small as possible. Silence from Victor. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.” Still silence. Then an inhale with no exhale. “He’ll do bad things to me if you get caught.”

        “What?” Victor turned around to face Henry, fear filling his dark eyes. It wasn’t a shout, but the noise echoed around the room. “But he can’t do bad things to you. He’s your dad,” he started to twitch like a panicked greyhound. “He’s your dad.”

        “Please come back,” Henry’s voice was barely more than a squeak as he held out his hand.

        Victor began to crawl towards him. “My dad can protect you. He’s a lawyer. He’d never let anything bad happen. And my mom loves you very much. I can’t leave you with someone who will--” His voice rose with panic until it was cut off by a hand around his throat.

        “Papa, it was my fault. I asked him to get the book.” Henry clutched his father’s pant leg as he hoisted Victor into the air. “I promise I’ll never do it ever again. Please Papa, it’s not his fault.”

        “Henry Lucien, I think I need to teach Mr. Frankenstein a lesson,” Lawrence stared down at him and his yellow eyes glowed like a cat’s. He dragged Victor down the hall and into the darkness.

        “No, Papa,” Henry screamed. “Punish me instead. I deserve it. Please.” He ran down the hall, tears streaming down his face. “Please, please don’t hurt him! Anything but that! Papa, please!” Henry’s voice changed as he ran down the hall until he ran into a plane of glass leaving a smear of blood where his nose made contact. Lawrence loomed in the corner. “Victor, Victor!” he screamed. “Where is Victor? What have you done to him?”

        His father laughed and the lights came on revealing an almost barren room that didn’t belong in his house. Caroline, Alphonse, William, Ernest, Lizzie, and Jascha were chained to the wall. A dark shape lurked behind his father.

        “Victor?” Henry asked, his voice being swallowed by the room. The man walked into the light. He looked terrible, like the ghost of a puppet pulled by strings of tendons. Sallow eyes and flaking skin that seemed like they would tear like paper every time he moved his joints. “Victor, why do you have a knife?”

        He cocked his head and looked straight through Henry’s eyes to the back of his skull. “Isn’t it obvious?” Victor said, voice as brittle as styrofoam. He slashed open his mother’s lower stomach and pulled out her intestines with his bare hand. He relished the twitch of the tissue and the blood that flowed over his skin. Alphonse’s screams rose to the ceiling of the hall.

        “Victor, why?” Henry yelled as he beat his hands against the glass. Lawrence’s laughter trickled in the background, barely audible over the flow of Caroline’s blood. Her chest heaved as she slowly died from blood loss.

        It would be only a few moments before she passed out, so Victor worked quickly. He walked to Alphonse and cut deep from the left shoulder to the right. He tried to raise a hand to his son’s face, but couldn't. Even from across the room, Henry could see his tears mix with the blood dripping from his chest. Victor plunged the knife deep into the tender part of his throat and tugged downwards, struggling as the blade hit bone. Caroline watched the light fade from her husband’s eyes.

        Victor dug his fingers into the slits and pulled, squishing the pectoral muscle under his fingertips. With the rib cage exposed, he took to hacking away the bone. It splintered and cracked under his knife and hands until Alphonse’s heart was exposed. With a few flicks of his blade, he held his father’s weakly beating heart in the palm of his hand. Soon, the muscle would forget its purpose and stop pumping blood over Caroline’s guts.

        Henry was sick in the corner of  his glass cell.

        “What?” Victor asked. “Is this too much for you?” His eyes glowed bright and yellow.

        Henry continued to beat against the glass until the skin on the heel of his hands burst and left bloody smudges like frog tracks on the wall. “Let him go!” He screamed at his father. “Please! I’ll do anything! Anything!” He sobbed. He sobbed like a small child.

        Victor walked over to poor little William who had already passed out from the horror. The sound of meat dragging on linoleum made Henry vomit again. Victor worked the knife through the soft skin of his brother’s neck and peeled it away like an orange skin until his spine was revealed and he broke apart the segments. The spinal cord snapped like a rope and William’s head fell into Victor’s hands. Blood and cerebrospinal fluid mixed into a thick jelly that fell to the floor. His glasses fell off and broke on the ground.

        “Victor, please don’t hurt me.” Ernest begged. “Just put down the head and stop.”

        “Oh, Ernest,” Victor mewled as he dragged the knife over his thigh, drawing a thin line of blood. “I always said I was going to kill you. I’m just going to do it really slowly.”  

        “Victor please stop. Just stop. I know you’re stronger than this,” Henry cried. He didn’t notice that his knees hit the ground as he slumped against the glass wall.

        “What you know about me wouldn’t fill a thimble,” he snapped. “This is me. The real me, Clerval. The me I’ve been hiding from you for years.”

        “Stop. I know it’s not,” Henry’s voice was thin from screaming.

        Victor cut into Ernest’s thigh, careful not to hit any major bloodlines.  Ernest screamed his name over and over and over again. Finally, Victor took pity and cut the femoral artery. He removed the muscle in sheets and draped them over his shoulders. Once Ernest stopped screaming there was silence save for Jascha’s quiet sobbing.

        Henry kept pounding away at the glass with his hands and feet. If he could just get out he could stop it. That’s all he had to do and it would stop. It had to.

        Victor approached Elizabeth. “Just kill me.” She said, deadpan. “Just do it.”

        “Oh, no, no, no, Lizzie,” Victor whispered. Holding her face between his bloody fingers. “I’m after something specific from everyone.”

        “Why?” she hissed.

        “I need materials for my creation.” He cut a shallow line down the center of her face, only cutting through the skin and nothing more. He cut rings around her arms, wrists, chest, and neck before starting to tear the skin. He relished the sound and feel of each of her nerve endings ripping, leaving frayed edges that could never heal. Lizzie screamed and screamed and screamed. What would kill her first? Shock, blood loss, or hypothermia? Or would she be one of those poor kids who lived for days after all their skin was gone, slowly becoming food for flies and beetles? Her muscle shone with viscous fluid and Victor ran his fingers through it and brought it to his lips. Henry put his head between his legs and swayed from side to side.

        Eventually, Lizzie was quiet and Victor wore her skin like a robe. With his brother’s muscle as a ruff and his mother’s guts as a train he looked like a woman waiting to be married. Everything stank of iron and raw meat.

        Henry tried one more time to break through his cage. The glass shattered under his touch and he fell to the ground at Victor’s feet, drenched in the blood and excrement of his family members. He could taste it in his mouth and felt it drip from his hair. Jascha’s torment was quick and easy. He didn’t even protest. Victor cut off his hands and let him fall to the ground. Jascha didn’t die.

        Holding his fingers between his teeth, Victor heaved the body parts on the ground in front of Henry. “I’m almost done. Aren’t you proud of me?” he asked. “You always said I could do great things.”

        “Not like this,” Henry sobbed. “Never anything--”

        Victor pushed the knife into Henry’s hands. “I need you to kill me now.”

        “No,” Henry found some strength in his voice. “I won’t do it. I never will.”

        “Why don’t you hate me, after everything I’ve done? All of this?” he gestured to the floor. He sank to his knees and allowed himself to be enveloped by the meat. “Is this not enough for you?” He screamed. “Why don’t you hate me?”

        “Victor, I can’t,” Henry couldn’t see through his tears. The smell almost made him vomit again.

        “Kill me, Clerval,” he yelled. “Please kill me. I’m a monster. Why won’t you kill me?” He had a vice grip around Henry’s wrists staining the cuff of his shirt black and red. “Take out my bones. They’re the last thing you need to make a real person. Kill me, Clerval. Kill me.”

        “I can’t, Victor. I just can’t. Please don’t make me.” Lawrence cackled in the background and Victor clamped his hands over Henry’s ears and pressed their foreheads together.

        “Henry, please kill me,” he whispered. “Please make the pain stop.”

 

* * *

 

        Victor hovered in front of the door of his room, hand on the handle. The door had been cleared of his blood, he noticed, as had the hall. No evidence left of that night. Probably Henry’s doing there. Never could leave a mess where there shouldn’t be one. Victor released the doorknob and glanced down the hall. What were the odds that Henry was not in his room? He could be off somewhere in the house, reading or watching TV. Hanging out with Jascha. That was impossible, though, considering he’d just seen the other man and Ernest too.

        Victor felt a small thrill race through him, bright as a sparking light bulb, immediately chased by fear. Jascha wanted him to experiment on him. No, no; not experiment. Surgery. It was surgery if the subject was alive. Jascha was alive and he wanted Victor to give him his hands back. His  real  hands, not the ones Victor had picked out for him. And his eyes. Jascha had wanted his eyes, too. Victor struggled with a small slash of frustration at that request. He’d done the man a favor, after all, in giving him new eyes. Better eyes. Hazel eyes were shadowy and dark and evil and his experiment deserved better than that.

        Victor couldn’t imagine working in that lab alone, for hours and days, knowing that dead hazel eyes were watching him from behind closed eyelids.

        Still, Jascha said they were important. To him. To his parents. Victor wondered if he could make a few calls. He still had some contacts in the area, morgues he’d made acquaintances at, morticians who’d given him their number as a ‘promising young’ member of the field. Maybe one of them had seen a hazel-eyed body come through.

        However, all of this planning rested firmly in Victor being able to enter his room. That’s where the surviving remnants of his notes remained, the charts and medical texts and references to Jascha’s physiology. He could wait. He should wait. He’d just gotten out of a stressful talk with Konig, the first of many, and, like always, the experience had left him raw and bloody, quiet and exposed. He had barely been able to stand talking to Jascha in the dining room, listening to the nervous man match his bluntness, unaware that each word said was the equivalent of his pushing hands into Victor’s torn chest to prod at the heart and ribs, scrape along the lining. Then again, if anyone deserved that privilege, it would be Jascha.

        Then Jascha had given him a task. Something to do, something he could do. And Victor was consumed once more.

        He needed his notes.

        Taking a deep breath, Victor cracked the door. As predicted, Henry was in his bed, snuggled deep beneath a mass of blankets, and all Victor wanted to do was join him, bury his face in the other’s chest and sob and apologize until his voice was so raw from it, he would never be able to speak again. Then he recalled Konig’s words and his rationality returned. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t force himself on Henry; force his forgiveness. He’d managed that cruelty too many times in the past and it was ultimately better if Henry never returned to him at all. Victor was just here for notes. He could grab them, slink back to the study, lock himself in and wait until the surgery day in solitude. A perfect plan. An awful plan. But, also the only reasonable plan he could currently pull from his swimming, screaming brain; the one begging him to hold Henry as tight as he could and never let go; so it would have to do.

        Victor tiptoed across the floor, minding each squealing board. His desk was amazingly well organized and Victor’s gut squirmed uncomfortably. More of Henry’s hand. Even when he was terrible to him, Henry could only be kind. He grabbed the pile labeled  Independent Project.

“Victor?”

        Victor froze in place, body snapped into an awkward pose by the sudden invasion of sound into the sacredly silent space. He turned to the bed, expecting to see Henry sitting up, staring at him in wide eyed despair or maybe relief or maybe just surprise. He wasn’t awake though.

        “Victor, no.” Henry mumbled again.

        A nightmare? It would make sense. These hadn’t been an easy few days. Kicked into action by instinct alone, Victor found himself standing over the bed, one hand ready to begin running through Henry’s hair. He pulled away at the last minute, however, and clutched the offending object close to his chest.

        He didn’t have any comfort to give Henry. His touch would only hurt, a scalding, wretched knife across Henry’s forehead.

        Victor should go get his dad. Yeah, that was a plan. His dad knew how to handle nightmares nearly as well as Victor did. And his comfort would be welcomed.

        “Victor, please stop.” He hesitated as his lower gut twisted. Henry’s voice had grown stronger now, closer to true talking. He was dreaming about Victor. That was a bad, bad sign. Dreams involving him usually took the route of Henry waking up sobbing and clutching onto him for dear life, babbling on about the overwhelming terror of watching Victor die, descriptions as horrific at twenty-three as they were at the age of eleven.

        Against his better judgement, Victor sat on the very edge of the bed. “Shh, Henry.” He said softly, not daring to touch the other man. “It’s okay, it’s not real.”

        Henry’s brief stint of talking surrendered itself to aborted thrashing, churning the blankets of the bed. Beneath his eyelids, the amber flicked back and forth as the breathing grew heavier and more desperate. Victor swallowed and glanced to the door before leaning forward. “It’s okay, everything’s okay.” He repeated. “You’re safe.” With a shaky hand, Victor moved to pet some of Henry’s hair from his forehead. It was slick with sweat. “You’re just fine.” He kept his voice soothing and even, shoving away the desire to draw Henry completely into his arms with tremendous effort.

        Henry’s face was a mask of grief and anguish. A few tears escaped from beneath his closed eyelids and Victor brushed them away with a gentle thumb. “Okay,” he said slowly, “I’m going to get Dad now.”

        By an act of will alone, Victor rose from the bed and snagged the notes from their place on the side table.

        He backed up to the door and grabbed the handle without breaking eye contact with the bed. The hallway was blissfully free of Henry’s keening.

        “Hey,” the sudden presence of new noise made Victor startle and he pressed himself flat to the wall as Ernest rounded the corner, “what are you doing up here?”

        Victor hoisted the notes as an answer. Ernest’s expression seemed to darken slightly as he read Jascha’s name scrawled in messy script across the top of the page. Slightly behind him, Jascha hovered. Robbed of a purpose, he appeared completely disinterested in Victor. Or maybe that was just the lingering fear and awkwardness. It was hard to read his cues without the advantages of brighter lights and a clear mind.

        Behind the door, Henry started to scream in earnest. Victor slid back along the wall as Ernest and Jascha jumped to action, but, no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t force his body to leave. He positioned himself halfway through the doorway and watched with anxiety as Ernest set about soothing Henry out of the nightmare.

        Some part of him screamed that he should be unbelievably jealous as Ernest stroked Henry’s hair and whispered the same assurances Victor had unsuccessfully spoken only minutes before. He was too tired to indulge that particular beast, however, and thus remained a pale and quiet shade of the backdrop as Henry woke with a painful gasp. The other man cast his eyes about the room wildly as Jascha lay a hand across his shoulder.

        Victor could sense the second Henry saw him by the sudden, intense pressure in the back of his throat. From the bare bones of his strength, Victor found a softer smile to adopt, an assurance that they were both safe, a relic of many nightmares past.

        It was the wrong thing to do. Henry’s breathing, if possible, grew more ragged and panicked, eyes blown wide with fear, his mouth a deep downward curve. He stared at Victor like he was a monster crawled from under the bed, dripping blood and gore across the carpet.

        Ernest followed Henry’s gaze back to Victor and frowned. “Henry, it’s okay.” He said.

        Henry shook his head hard and, as Victor took a hesitant step forward, threw himself against the back of the bed. “Please,” the other man cried, “please, I don’t want to. I don’t want to kill you!”

        Rigidness shot up Victor’s spine. He could barely command his voice to speech. “Henry-”

        Henry looked like might pass out or throw up as he met Victor’s frightened gaze. He grabbed blindly for Ernest and Jascha’s hands and pulled them both back a step. Away from Victor.

        “Victor, you need to leave.” Ernest said, gently but with obvious authority.

        He didn’t want to. Henry was in pain. Actual, true pain, Victor could see it in the curve of his shoulders and the heave of his chest. Henry needed him. Henry had Jascha and Ernest.

Henry  knew . How did Henry  know ?

        Victor fled the room, barely pausing as he brushed past a startled looking Elizabeth, still holding her suitcase in one hand. “Victor!” She called after him.

        He closed the study door and shoved a chair beneath the handle. His head was swimming, too many thoughts in one container, and he wanted to rip his ears off to let out the steam. He angled himself into the nearest corner and held his knees close to his chest, forcing breaths he didn’t want to take. Calm. He needed to be calm. Ripping his ears off would not be the best thing to do right now. Probably.

        “Victor?” Elizabeth’s voice came through the door. “I’m coming in, okay?”

        It was pointless to say no so Victor hid his head and tried to ignore her as she somehow pushed the door out from under the handle with ease. Fucking arsonists. Was there no trick she didn’t know how to work around?

        “You didn’t do it properly.” Elizabeth answered his unspoken question as she settled herself across from him. “You need to lodge the back closer to the knob.”

        “Noted.” Victor gasped.

        He winced back as Elizabeth attempted to place a hand on his shoulder, but, with added pressure, he found himself relaxing into it. With unnatural ease, Elizabeth shoved him over in the corner and inserted herself by his side. When she opened her arms, Victor dove into her, clinging to her sweater.

        “You need to go see Henry.” He squeezed out after a few minutes of rocking. “He had a nightmare. A bad one and he trusts you and Justine.”

        Elizabeth paused. He waited, in anticipation, for the questions, the lecture, whatever was to come. As kind as she could be, his sister did not beat around the bush when it came to matters of his and Henry’s mental health and he hadn’t talked to her since before this particular downhill turn. Her bluntness was as refreshing as it was unbearable.

        Ultimately, however, she said nothing. Just carefully untangled Victor from her arms and stood. “Is anyone with him now?” She asked.

        “Ernest. Jascha.”

        “Okay. Justine and I will see if they need anything.” Elizabeth reached down and tousled his hair. “I’ll be back soon.”

        With raw panic still crackling through his bones like hungry ants eating at the marrow, Victor commanded himself to an unnatural stillness. There was nothing in the office left to break. All he needed to do was breathe until Elizabeth returned. He could manage that. He had to manage that.

        His eyes flicked to the notes he had carried down with him. He drew them into his lap and flipped the first page open. It was a copy of Jascha’s initial injuries report as made by his own hand. He set to work marking out the severity of the fractures and breaks in Jascha’s left wrist.

 

* * *

 

        “Henry,” Jascha said gently, “I’m going to sit beside you. Okay?” Jascha sat on the bed next to Henry, still holding his hand. His grip was vice-like, and hurt a little, but Jascha didn’t mind. Ernest sat on Henry’s other side, holding his other hand. Henry curled in against the two of them, and Jascha was reminded of himself when he was little, curled up between his parents after a bad dream.

        “Is it okay for me to hug you?” Ernest asked quietly. Henry was unable to answer, but he nodded weakly. Ernest rested his head on Henry’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around him. “What happened?”

        Henry shook his head. He was still crying, but his eyes were a little more focused and his breathing a little less bad. Jascha rubbed circles into the back of his hand with his thumb. “Bad dream?” Jascha asked. Henry nodded. “That’s okay. You’re awake now. It can’t get you if you’re awake,” Jascha felt like his father. That was something he used to say. Henry leaned his head against his shoulder, closing his eyes.

        “I just wanted to sleep,” Henry said miserably. “I just wanted sleep.”

        “I know,” Ernest said empathetically. “It can be hard. I, like, still have trouble with the, uh, dreams. About the thing…” Ernest’s voice tapered off sadly, and Jascha reached with his free hand to touch his arm lightly. Ernest smiled at him weakly.

        “Are you kids okay?” Lizzie said from the door. She leaned against the doorframe casually, though she eyed Henry with concern.

        “Lizzie!” Ernest said, suddenly recovered from his sadness. He sat up slightly and smiled. “We’re okay. Henry had a bad dream, but he’s with us now.”

        “A little bird mentioned that might be the case,” Lizzie said calmly. “Anything Justine or I can do to help?”

        “I’m okay,” Henry said weakly.

        “Cool cool. I’ll be in Dad’s study. Justine is helping William with schoolwork downstairs, and I think Dad’s cooking. Just shout if you need me.” Lizzie left. Jascha relaxed a little; if she was in the study, she was with Victor. If she was with Victor, he couldn’t do anything too stupid.

        “How do I fix this?” Jascha returned to the present as Henry spoke.

        “Fix what?” Jascha asked. He was still thinking about the study. He’d seen that Victor had notes on an ‘independent project,’ which he knew meant him. He selfishly hoped that, for once, he was at the forefront of Victor’s mind.

        “Everything,” Henry said sadly. “My life. Victor.”

        “You can’t fix Victor,” Ernest said firmly. “He’s gonna be nuts until he decides to stop being nuts. That’s how people work.”

        “But I still love him,” Henry said into Jascha’s shoulder. “I think. I think I still love him. But he’s done such awful things to both of you. How can I still love him...” The tears started again. Jascha felt awkward. He only knew what to do if Ernest was crying, and Henry wasn’t Ernest. He couldn’t exactly kiss him and hold him until the crying stopped.

        “I mean,” Ernest said slowly. He stopped himself. “I...might not be the best one to have this talk. He’s never really done anything to, like, make amends with me.”

        Jascha perked up as he realized he actually might have something. “I can help.” Jascha said with uncharacteristic confidence.

        “You can?” Henry asked. Ernest, too, looked at him like he was crazy.

        “Yes,” Jascha nodded. “Henry, he agreed to help fix me. He didn’t get rid of my hands.” Ernest grimaced, and Henry blinked at him as he processed the information. “Uh, sorry. But it’s true. He kept my hands and agreed to put them back. So I can play violin again.”

        “He said that?” Henry asked feebly. Jascha felt a little bit of guilt; he was adorning Victor with a little more chivalry than he’d actually had during their conversation, and he wasn’t even touching the whole eye thing.

        “More or less,” Jascha said. Ernest raised an eyebrow. The rules about lying were a little different for Henry, so Jascha didn’t feel compelled to give him the complete information. “He’s going to help me be able to play again. Maybe he’s becoming normal again.”

        “Normal for the first time,” Ernest said under his breath bitterly.

        “Could you forgive him?” Henry asked. It was unclear which of them the question was addressed to. Maybe both.

        “He’s never asked me to,” Ernest said easily, though there was pain in his voice. “I don’t think he’s ever apologized to me. Not since Mom stopped being around, at least.”  

        “But would you?” Henry said desperately. “If he did ask? If he apologized?”

        “I mean…” Jascha watched as Ernest thought. He looked angry, and sad. Mostly sad. “It depends. Maybe. If he gave a really, really convincing apology. And like, actually changed.”

        Henry nodded, letting go of Jascha’s hand to wipe his eyes with his shirt. Once he was done, Jascha let him hold his hand again. It was a little awkward, but Ernest was doing it so it must be okay. Touch seemed like a normal thing in this family.

        “What about you, Jascha?” Henry said after a long silence. “He’s done...the worst things to you. Probably. I-I can’t even imagine what it was like after…”

        “Don’t.” Jascha said quickly, nausea rising as he was reminded of the early days. Henry startled at his tone, and Jascha gave his hand an apologetic squeeze. “I...don’t like to think about it. The time in the lab. Or immediately after.” It was true. He still hadn’t told Ernest about any of it, or the dreams. Talking about the pain might make it real.

        “I’m sorry,” Henry said quietly.

        “It’s okay,” Jascha said, recovering his calm. “And I don’t know. Maybe. Like Ernest. If he apologized, yes. If he gives me my hands back and doesn’t...do anything I don’t consent to, yes.” Jascha felt a dull wave of anger. “If he says or does another thing even remotely like the other night, never. Or if I wake up and he’s done more weird things to my organs.” Ernest looked like he might be sick, and Jascha felt bad. He reached across Henry again and rested his hand on his arm. “He’s not well. But it might not be his fault. So I’d forgive him if he got better.”

        Henry nodded. “Okay. Yeah.”

        “How do you feel?” Jascha asked gently as Henry sat up.

        “Better, I think. It’s probably close to dinner time.” Ernest nodded, and the three of them got up. Henry kept one arm hooked in Ernest’s as they walked downstairs, being unsteady on his feet. William and Justine sat at the already-set dining room table, and each of them sat too.

        “Hey, boys,” Justine said warmly. Ernest detached from Henry to give her a hug, which she accepted happily.  

        “Hi, Justine,” Henry said with a weak smile.

        “Hi,” Jascha sat next to Ernest’s seat. He hadn’t seen her in several days, so now he felt awkward around her again.

        Alphonse came in with food; a large salad and a roast chicken. Everyone served themselves, save for Lizzie and Victor who were eating upstairs. Jascha was glad he had someone to sit with now. He imagined it probably felt bad to be alone in the study all day.

        “So,” Alphonse said once everyone was served. “I hear that there’s a need for plans for a certain boy’s birthday tomorrow,” he said, eyeing William affectionately.

        “Oh, no, the plans are set,” Henry said quickly, recovering in record time with a bright smile. “The Greeks are waging war on the Trojans. At the LaserWar place in the mall.”

        Jascha looked at Henry like he had three heads. “What?”

        William beamed, however. “Oh!! Who’s playing the Greeks? Or the Trojans?” He practically bounced in his seat. Jascha didn’t understand. He looked desperately at Ernest, who also looked confused.

        “Hm…” Henry said thoughtfully. “We need a good athlete for Achilles, and-”

        “Ernest!” William almost shouted, startling Ernest, who was occupied with eating, as well as Jashca, who was occupied with watching Ernest eat.

        “What’s up?” Ernest asked, brow furrowed slightly in confusion and concern.

        “You’re Achilles!” William said gleefully.

        “I am?” Ernest smiled.

        “Yes!” Henry agreed. He seemed much improved now, save for the dark circles. Jascha relaxed a little. He knew who Achilles was, and he was proud of himself.  “What about the others? An honorable person for Hector and Diomedes. An excellent leader and healer for Patroclus. Someone sketchy for Paris.”

        William giggled a little. “If Ernest is Achilles, then Jascha has to be Patroclus,” he said with a smile. Jascha heard his name and stopped staring at Ernest absently, drawn from the comforting joy of seeing him be a healthy person back to the awkward terror of the dinner table.

        “Who’s Patroclus?” Jascha asked. Henry and William looked at him with disappointment, and Jascha looked away, embarrassed.

        “Patroclus is Achilles’ best friend. They shared a tent every night and never left each others’ sides. When they died, their ashes were buried together.” William had added air quotes to ‘best friend.’ Now Jascha felt really embarrassed, and he wanted to leave. How could this kid fail to see that Alphonse was right there? At the head of the table, able to see and hear everything.   


        “Okay. I’m done eating now, and I’m going to go-” Jascha started to get up, but Ernest grabbed his arm.

        “Wait for me,” He said. It was enough. His plate wasn’t empty yet, and as badly as Jascha wanted to flee to the piano, he wanted Ernest to eat more. He sat down, looking away from everyone. Especially Alphonse.

        “He’s definitely Patroclus,” Henry nodded. Jascha looked at him with betrayal. How could this entire family not understand how weird and bad it was to talk about his relationship with Ernest in front of Ernest’s father? There’s no way he could possibly be okay with that. What if he knew Jascha had slept with Ernest last night? Jascha felt sick. What if he or Ernest made noise last night? What if-

        “Jascha?” Ernest’s voice pulled him back. It was a whisper, but it was accompanied by a gentle squeeze of his hand. Jascha blinked as he met Ernest’s eyes, glancing to the others. William and Henry were talking about Greek things. Justine and Alphonse were talking. No one was looking at him except Ernest.

        “Hm?” Jascha focused on the feeling of Ernest holding his hand.

        “You okay?” Ernest said gently. “You looked kinda distant.”

        “Yup.” Jascha nodded. “I’m okay.” Ernest raised an eyebrow.

        “I’m done eating,” Ernest said quietly. “Want to go upstairs? We can play a video game or something-” Jascha stood up the second Ernest asked if he wanted to go upstairs.

        “Thank you for the food,” He said stiffly to Alphonse.

        “No need to thank me, Jascha,” Alphonse said with a smile. Jascha looked at him, because it was impolite not to. He jumped slightly when he felt Ernest touch his arm, in broad view of Alphonse, who saw and looked concerned. “Jascha, what’s wrong?”

        “Nothing. Stressful day. Thanks.” Jascha left the room quickly, trailed by Ernest, who had to jog to catch up to him.

        “Jascha, what’s wrong?” Ernest caught his hand. “What’s up?”

        Jascha shook his head. “It’s nothing,” Jascha slowed down so Ernest could walk with him up the stairs. “It’s been a stressful day. That’s all.”

        “Is it the stuff about being gay? Like the Greek dudes Henry and William like?” Ernest asked gently as they started the second flight of stairs. Jascha hesitated before speaking, aware that their relationship could be a raw topic for both of them.

        “It did add stress,” Jascha said finally. “I know your father is okay with us. It’s just difficult for me to believe.”

        “Was your dad, like, super homophobic?” Ernest asked as they reached his room. Jascha fidgeted as he waited for Ernest to unlock the door.

        “I don’t know,” Jascha said uncomfortably. Once the door was open, he went inside and sat on the bed. He let Ernest pull him down so that his head was in his lap, happy to have Ernest petting his hair. He curled up so his legs could fit on the bed.

        “Did you, like, talk to him about any of that stuff? You were gay before the whole, uh...thing, right?” Ernest was warm and smelled good. Jascha closed his eyes.

        “I don’t think so,” Jascha said quietly, relaxing now that he was alone with Ernest. “I didn’t really think about dating. At all.”

        “Really?” Ernest asked. “But you like, knew stuff. And liked me.”

        Jascha nodded. “Mhm. And I did hook up with someone once. But it was awkward, and I didn’t really like her that way at the time. So we just became friends.” Jascha sighed. “I started liking you because we were friends. And I don’t think I really had a liking stage.”

        “What do you mean?” Ernest sounded worried, so Jascha sat up. He placed a hand on Ernest’s cheek and kissed him lightly.

        “I realized I was attracted to you, and then later that same week realized I was in love with you.” Jascha kissed him on the cheek before settling back into his lap. “And that never really happened with anyone else, of any gender, so I never talked to my mom or dad about it.” Jascha wasn’t quite telling the whole truth. His mother tried talking to him about sex and dating when he was sixteen, but she didn’t get past ‘love’ because he’d had a panic attack. She tried the sex talk again a few months later and he’d just nodded along until the torture was over. \

        “What was your hookup like?” Ernest asked. Jascha could feel the smirk in his voice.

        “How do you think it went?” Jascha asked, smiling slightly. He rolled onto his back so he could look up at Ernest.

        “Do you really want me to guess?” Ernest asked with a smirk. Jascha thought for a second, but nodded. It might be fun to see what Ernest thought. “Can I ask whether it was a guy or girl?”

        “Girl,” Jascha said. “Her name was Cleo.”

        Ernest nodded, smiling as he thought. “Okay. I think I have it. Ready?”

        “Ready,” Jascha nodded. He felt significantly less anxious now, and he was content to have Ernest make fun of him so long as he was being held.

        “Okay,” Ernest grinned. “So I think you were probably in college. Because no one, like, actually just hooks up once in high school. I feel like it wouldn’t have been, like, a hand job. So either a blowjob or all the way.” Ernest looked at Jascha’s face. “I feel like it was probably a blowjob. Sex is kind of a lot. Did I guess right?” Jascha nodded. Ernest grinned. “Okay, give me the actual details.”

        “Nope,” Jascha said quickly, suddenly embarrassed.  

        “Why not?” Ernest whined.

        “Because it was embarrassing,” Jascha said quickly. Ernest’s brows rose with interest.

        “Aw come on, now you have to tell me. Or else I’ll start guessing again.” Ernest said wickedly, smirking. When Jascha shook his head, he grinned. “Okay. You couldn’t get hard.”

        “Nope.” Jascha said, sitting up. He lay back against the pillows, away from Ernest. “I won’t tell you. Even if you guess.”

        Ernest settled beside him, resting a hand on his stomach. “So you got hard, then. Did you, like, I don’t know. Get cum on her face by accident?”

        “I’m not going to tell you.” Jascha shifted in discomfort. He hadn’t thought of that as a possible outcome of a blowjob.

        “Did you come after, like, seconds?” Ernest asked. “Or before she even started?”

        “Ernest, I’m not telling.” Jascha said lightly.

        “Did your jizz taste weird?” Ernest giggled a little.

        “That’s gross,” Jascha grimaced. “I don’t know what it tasted like.”

        “Did my jizz taste gross?” Ernest looked concerned now.

        “I didn’t taste it,” Jascha said gently, kissing him on the forehead. “I just swallowed.”

        Ernest recovered. “I’m running out of embarrassing sex things, Jascha.”

        “Good,” Jascha said with a smile. He let Ernest kiss him on the lips, allowing him to straddle him as he did. It didn’t take long for the light kisses to get heavy, and the heavy kisses to get hungry. Jascha moaned ever so slightly when Ernest pulled away from the kiss, running his hand over the full length of his erection.

        “Your dick is huge,” Ernest said breathlessly. “I, like, only really noticed now.”

        “I’m sorry,” Jascha said breathlessly. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. He startled as Ernest laughed. “What?”

        “I’m sorry, it’s okay,” Ernest hugged his, kissing his cheek lightly. “I think I just figured out what happened with Cleo.”

        “What?” Jascha was confused.

        “You probably apologized. Like, when you came or something weird like that.” Ernest kissed him again.

        “How’d you know?” Jascha asked, letting Ernest settle beside him.

        “I compliment you on having a nice dick, and you apologized,” Ernest said with a smile. “It’s also, like, completely what I’d expect.”

        “What does that mean?” Jascha wasn’t upset. He didn’t really care, since Ernest didn’t seem worried about it.

        “It just means you’re, like, sweet. And nervous. Like, super nervous. All the time.” Ernest cuddled up against him, and Jascha closed his eyes contentedly.

        “I’m not nervous now,” he whispered. He wasn’t. He felt fine now. It was only at nearly all other moments of this particular day that he’d been stressed. Or week, now that he thought about it. Month, maybe. He frowned, realizing that he hadn’t been relaxed for longer than a night at any point in his recent memory.

        “You have me now,” Ernest said warmly. “I won’t let anything happen to you, so you don’t need to be nervous.”

        “You’re like the ankle guy. Achilles,” Jascha said, and he was proud he remembered that William had said something about Achilles being protective of the other guy. The one with the hard name that Jascha couldn’t figure out how to pronounce.

        “We’ll find out tomorrow,” Ernest said quietly, kissing him on the temple. “Patroclus.”


	36. The Trojan War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry is Hector. Victor does something right. Jascha tries to phone home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks for sticking with us all this time! I know long fics can be...long. But we love you and value your feedback and support!
> 
> Trigger warnings: Light this time! Descriptions of death in a nightmare and some references to medical horror/surgery.

        “Hey,” Henry pressed his hand into the crook of Ernest’s elbow. The night passed rather miserably and now William was in school.

        “What’s up?” Ernest asked. He obviously scanned Henry from top to bottom, looking for signs of distress. He breathed a sigh of relief when he came up empty save for the dark circles under his eyes.

        “I need to go get William a present. I’ve finally found the perfect one,” Henry smiled and Jascha seemed vaguely confused.

        “Dude, you don’t already have one? You’ve had like a year of heads up,” Ernest teased.

        “I’ve been a little caught up,” Henry laughed. “But in any case, can I take your car?”

        “My man, my dude. The last time you drove a car you crashed into a tree.” Ernest said as Henry’s smile faltered slightly. “How about I just come with you, yeah?”

        “Yeah, that’s totally cool. I haven’t be out in like...ages.” Henry righted himself and turned to face Jascha. “You want to come too?”

        “Um, yeah. Where?” He moved closed to Ernest.

        “The mall, obviously,” Henry laughed, “Unless you have a better idea,” he said to Ernest.

        “Nah man, the mall is cool,” he said as he threw on his coat and boots. After scrambling around looking for their hats and gloves, Henry and Ernest were properly outfitted for the Chicago winter. Jascha, however, as not.

        “I’m going to be fine, Ernest, really,” Jascha mumbled as Henry and Ernest tore through the extra coat closet. There was some of William and Lizzie’s old stuff, but nothing that would even remotely suit Jascha.

        “If you think,” Henry said, pointing a glove threateningly at Jascha chest. “That I’m going to let you just wander around out in the cold without so much as a hat, you are sorely mistaken, my friend.”

        Ernest rolled his eyes and smiled as he threw a pair of leather gloves to him. “I think these are Dad’s? They might work.” He watched intently as Jascha struggled to fit it over his palm. “Or maybe not,” Ernest frowned.

        Henry picked up a hat and turned it around in his hands before turning to Jascha and giving him a wicked grin.

        “No, no,” Jascha said, backing up, “That is an atrocity. I cannot subject the public to that  thing .” The hat was bright pink with ugly christmas sweater reindeer knitted into it and a huge, pink pompom on top.

        Ernest giggled with glee and took into from Henry. “Please, at least try it on. For me?” He gave Jascha the biggest puppy-dog eyes Henry had ever seen, and he’d spent the past week with William.

        “Fine,” Jascha grumbled as he pulled it over his hair. “Are you happy? This is a disgrace.”

        Henry was trying desperately to hold in his laughter against his sleeve, but Ernest was straight up hysterical. “It’s great. You look adorable,” he finally managed to get out.

        “Listen, it’s nice that you too are, um, trying to help me stay warm? But really--”

        “Would you rather have the one with the cat ears?” Ernest asked as he pulled it from the heap. Henry couldn’t keep it together anymore.

        “I’ll keep this one,” Jascha blushed and Ernest was satisfied.

        The car ride to the mall was pretty standard after that. Henry finally got to talk to a captive audience about his poetry, not that Ernest seemed to be trapped. In fact, he seemed pretty interested, if a little confused and misguided, but he had the spirit and that’s what was important. Jascha, on the other hand seemed completely lost.

        “So, the transition between the paragraphs are important?” He asked, trying desperately to participate.

        Both Henry and Ernest looked at him blankly. “The what?” Ernest asked, a slight smile appearing in the corner of his mouth.

        “The...paragraphs...is that not right? The little...break-y things in between blocks of text? Those things?” Jascha blushed, and Henry, once again, started giggling into the crook of his elbow.

        “Stanzas,” Ernest supplied. “I think that’s the word you’re looking for, my dude.”

        “Well, I’m sorry. I don’t speak poetry,” he teased.

        “With Henry around, you’ll learn soon enough,” he said, trying to motion back even though he was driving the car down the highway. “I think he first started trying to talk Yeats to me at maybe five years old?”

        “I think it was actually four,” Henry corrected. “Because I came to your house for dinner after the stuff and the thing with the Scythian blood ritual.”

        “Oh my god, how could I have possibly forgotten about you and Victor and that blood ritual?” Ernest gasped. “Victor got grounded for, like, three whole days and I was so sad I couldn’t play with him.”

        “Those were the days,” Henry laughed. “Scythian blood rituals were the biggest of our problems.” A quiet sadness settled around the car before it was chased away by Jascha.

        “Did you guys have a fucked up childhood or what?” Jascha asked earnestly.

        “Look,” Henry propped his elbows on his thighs and used his hands to gesture. “I just really, really wanted to be friends with Victor and he was the other six year old who knew ancient bonding rituals.”

        “You were six when this happened?” Jascha looked to Ernest, half terrified.  

        “Ehh, more like six and a half. It wasn’t really a big deal. We just needed to mix our blood together and drink it, that’s all.”

        “So, Victor’s always been  like that ?” Jascha asked and Ernest laughed.

        “Oh, no, I asked him to do it.” There was a moment of silence.

        “What?!?” the pitch of Jascha voice could have broken glass.

        Ernest had dissolved into hysterics as he was trying to drive. “No yelling, or I’ll pull this car over,” he wheezed.

        “Sorry,” Henry and Jascha said in unison.

        “It’s a common misconception,” he said as he patted Jascha on the shoulder. “I was a weird fucking kid.”

        “You didn’t really,” Jascha stumbled. “I mean, you can’t…”

        “We just ended up exchanging middle names instead, because they’re secret and I’m a fairy.” Henry looked rather smug.

        “And?”

        “Henry Lucien, Victor Endymion, Elizabeth Antigone, William Orpheus, Ernest--”

        “Don’t you dare, Henry. Secret names are secret for a reason.” Ernest cut in.

        “But yours is so good.”

        “Secret names are secret.”

        Henry smiled, glad that he managed to make Jascha laugh a little bit. “It is pretty good though, and I’m sure yours is good too, though probably slightly less weird.”

        Jascha only smiled contentedly and looked out the window. The rest of the car ride followed as the beginning.

        The mall was practically barren. After all, it was 11:32 on a therapy day. Henry shook his head. School day. Most people thought about those as school days or work days. It had been a long time since Henry had been to this mall. Last time, Victor tried to start a science experiment in the coin fountain and they had gotten themselves into a fair bit of trouble, but none of the security guards would recognize him anymore. Probably.

        “So what were you thinking?” Ernest asked, tugging him slightly in the direction of the Barnes and Noble.

        “I think I’m gonna get him the nice edition of the Bulfinch Mythology,” Henry explained. “It has some really nice translations and they’re not really dumbed down for kids.”

        “Ooooh, I bet he’s gonna love that. He just adored D'Aulaires’ when I read it to him as a kid,” Ernest said. Jascha stuck extremely close to his right side and didn't say anything. It was as if he were his somewhat taller, strikingly beautiful shadow. The book was easy to find and Henry managed to pick up a few others just for fun. Jascha didn’t seem to notice to intrusive questions about his literary taste.

        “I, uh, guess I should probably get something for William too,” Jascha said. “What do babies even like?”

        “Dude, he’s going to be twelve years old. Normal people things,” Ernest said, leaning his head on Jascha’s shoulder for a full three seconds before pulling away and bounding for the food court.

        Henry watched as Jascha’s eyes spun wildly before deciding that no one had seen and that it was safe to keep existing. “He likes books and classics and music a lot,” Henry tried to help. “He grew up with Alphonse so he’s pretty fond of classical.”

        “Really?” Jascha asked, still looking mildly disturbed.

        “Yeah. Maybe a CD or something. I bet it would make him really happy.” Henry spun around and whispered, “It’s alright, really. It’s how Ernest is.”

        They almost had to run to catch up with him. There were more people milling around the food court, mostly delinquent children skipping class or retirees. Ernest was intently staring at an advertisement for sushi. “This is all really terrible,” he said, half to himself, half to Henry.

        “We don’t have to eat here,” he said, “Plus, maybe Jascha wants to go to the CD store.”

        “Do you?” Ernest asked, looking over his shoulder and spinning to see Jascha.

        “Yeah, I want to grab something for William,” Jascha said and Ernest guided them to the shop.  

        It had been a long time since Henry had thought about buying a CD. He supposed he was just incredibly picky about the music he liked to listened to and a whole CD was such a big investment if he only liked a song of two from the album. He wandered around the rows perusing a few odd alternative rock records and vaguely listened to Ernest and Jascha talk in the background. Henry stumbled on  The Black Parade  by My Chemical Romance. School. It had been such a long time since he went to class or worked on his thesis, even in the least little bit. All of his professors probably thought he was dead. He should probably call Adelaide and tell her that he was a bit behind. She probably wouldn’t mind. She might even tell him to take a break, but he desperately didn't want to.

        “Hey, Henry, Baroque or Romantic?” Ernest yelled across the store.

        “Romantic, obviously. He’s Alphonse’s kid,” Henry yelled back as he wandered over to the classical music section. Jascha had awkwardly positioned himself in front of a rack and refused to move, instead having Ernest bring CDs to him.

         “Thanks,” Jascha said as he  compared two tracks. “I’ve never really been fond of Midori,” he muttered.

        “Who are you fond of?” Henry asked.

        “Heifetz, Hilary Hahn, Pearlman, naturally,” Jascha said. “My father used to have couple of cool historical Stern recordings.”

        “Hmm, the Paganini concerto is pretty cool,” Henry said, as he looked at Hilary Hahn’s smiling face.

        “But not very William,” Jascha said as he awkwardly handed it back to Ernest. “I’ve got it,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Swan Lake!”

        He left his post and Henry could see what he was hiding. Jascha Simonis presents the Vitali’s Chaconne, Tedesco’s The Lark, and Faure’s Sonata no. 1. He had several other recordings available for purchase. Henry picked up the Chaconne and hurried away to pay for it before Jascha noticed. He hid the CD in his pocket.

        “Are we good to go?” Ernest asked and both Henry and Jascha nodded in agreement.

        Back at home, both Elizabeth and Justine were rearing to go. They were dressed in dark jeans and black t-shirts. Alphonse sipped on a cup of black coffee as he watched all of his children, save for William.

        “You guys, it’s lasertag, not war,” Ernest sighed as Elizabeth and Henry brewed over some battle schematics. How Lizzie was able to find the layout of LaserWar was completely beyond Henry, but he was happy for the distraction.  

        “You fool,” Lizzie slightly slammed her fist on the table. “It is  the  war.”

        “The only war. The Trojan war.” Justine laughed, mocking Henry’s enthusiasm.

        “Hey, it’s the best,” Henry laughed.

        “Okay, kids. Lets go pick William up from school,” Justine said, swinging her keys around her finger.

        “In your truck?” Ernest asked, rolling his eyes. “There’s, like, six of us. We can take mine.”

        “You’ll still be committing crime, Ernest. One of us won’t have a seatbelt,” Lizzie teased.

        “Blah blah blah. I can’t hear you. I’ve never broken a law in my entire life,” Ernest put his hands over his ears and went to get his keys.

        There was a beat and Elizabeth turned to Justine. “He most definitely has. I don’t know which one or when. But he’s definitely committed crime.”  

        After coaxing Ernest from his cocoon of lawfulness, the five of them squished into the car to pick up William. “See, this is totally fine,” Lizzie said as she practically sat half on Justine’s lap.

        “Maybe from your angle,” Henry said through a mouthful of her hair.

        “As long as William gets a seatbelt, I don’t give a damn how comfortable you guys are,” Ernest said.

        William was thrilled to see all of them at school. He took turns hugging everyone, even Jascha, before introducing them to his friend.

        “Everyone, this is Isabella. Isabella, everyone,” William said. The small, dark-eyed girl gave a small wave. It looked like she carried about 60 pounds of books in her backpack and arms and William had another three that could not have been light.

        “William’s told me so much about you,” she said waiting a beat. “You are all so weird.” Everyone burst out laughing. They were, weren't they? Pretty weird.

        “You know, we can bring her with us,” Ernest said, smiling.

        “I would love to, but I promised I’d be home to help my brother with his poetry homework.” Isabella said. “We celebrated in school, though.”

        “She made me cookies,” William chimed in.

        “If we examine the Frankenstein record, this means they’ll end up happily married with three kids by the time they’re 30,” Lizzie whispered to Henry.

        Isabella waved her goodbyes and the family bickered about who was going to sit in the way-back. It was actually a much better prospect than having to sit in the middle of the normal back, but Henry didn’t really mind either way.

        “I can be in the back,” he said. “It really doesn’t matter.”

        “No, I’ll do it,” said Justine. “I’m small enough that it doesn’t matter. You’re practically a goliath.”

        “No,” Lizzie said, acting heroic. “I shall take the fall and sit in the back.”

        “I’d prefer if none of you did,” Ernest piped in. Jascha was quiet, knowing his place of security as shotgun.

        “Come on,” Lizzie called, “commit crime like a man!”

        “I’ll sit in the back! It sounds fun!” William sang.

        “No!” everyone else yelled.

        In the end, Lizzie sat in the back because it was her punishment to endure, and William chose to be squished between Henry and Justine.

        “So , who needs a review of the Trojan War?” William asked, all eyes turned to Jascha.

        “I, uh...I guess I do?” He conceded.

        “So, we’ve got the Greeks and the Trojans,” William explained. “And the Greeks are mean idiots who think starting a war will solve all their problems. So there’s Achilles, the best of the Greeks, Aristos Achaion. That’s Ernest. And Patroclus, his ‘best friend’ and reason for fighting. That's Jascha.”

        “What about me?” Justine asked.

        “You’re Diomedes, obviously,” he said as if it was clear as glass. “You know, listens to the gods, good at planning, best at fighting.”

        “Hey,” Ernest whined.

        “I’m sorry, but it’s true. You guys are going to need to invade the Trojan fortress, capture our flag, and kill Hector, the most honorable breaker of horses. That’s gonna be Henry. In order to do that, you’re going to have to get through his brother or, sister, Paris. That’s Lizzie.”

        “Hell yeah, I get to be the pretty boy!” She yelled. “Also, stop trying to hit every pothole, jackass.”

        “Lizzie, don’t swear in front of Ernest.” William said, scandalized. “Anyway, the Trojans are trying to protect their fort and Hector. Standard rules apply.”

        “There are standard rules?” Jascha asked.

        “Everyone has to follow the rules of honor, but if Patroclus goes down then Achilles gets a free pass to be as ruthless as he wants,” Ernest explained, grinning a little bit like a maniac.

        “Who are you, then?” Jascha asked.

        “Hmm, I hadn’t thought about it,” William admitted.

        “I think it’s rather obvious,” Henry cut in. “You’re Aeneas because you’re guarded by love.”

        LaserWar was basically as deserted as the mall because the only parent who let their kids go out on a school night was named Alphonse Frankenstein. The poor worker definitely gave them strange looks as they entered their game names and put on their vests. Inside the arena it was dark, with looming foam structures to climb on and hide under. Blacklight was used to give the neon decorations some glow, as well as Henry’s white shirt, which he very much regretted.

        The teams took their places on the opposite sides on the arena and hid their flags in the dark. The buzzer rang and everyone jumped into action. Ernest moved first, storming to the midway point where he climbed a pillar and surveyed his surroundings. Henry tried to meet him, but was much less graceful. Instead, he tried to take a position under a tunnel so he could ambush him when he moved. Justine took the midground, staying on the same level. She tried and succeeded to get eyes on Henry and staked out his position. Jascha was left to guard the flag, but they hid it well. He took a position about ten feet off from Ernest in a guard. He too had eyes on Henry, considering he was glowing a fluorescent purple.  

        Lizzie planted herself on top of an arch and was prepared to try to shoot Ernest down, but William stopped her. He urged her to move to the midground and get a read on Justine while he guarded the flag.

        In theory, there was a strategy and plan, but it was quickly abandoned when everyone started shooting. The cacophony of vests beeping and screams of laughter were music to Henry’s ears. They were also winning, so that was a plus. Ernest was the only one that seemed really committed to his roleplaying. He had slunk under the arch where the Greeks were keeping the flag and sulked.

        “What are you doing? What’s wrong?” Jascha asked him, dismayed. “I thought you were having fun.”

        Ernest smiled briefly before summoning back his pouty face. “Agamemnon has slighted me and my honor so I’m not going to fight anymore.”

        “Who is Agamimion? We’re the only people here? What are you talking about?” Jascha half-yelled over the combat.

        Just play along  he mouthed to him before placing a wrist dramatically to his forehead. “I cannot forgive him ever and the Greeks will surely lose without me.” He caught William out of the corner of his eye, grinning from ear to ear.

        “Uhhh, then, uhhh…” Jascha tried to find something that would make both Ernest and William happy. “Then I must fight in your stead, Achilles!” He said, hoisting his laser gun like a sword. It worked and Henry maneuvered himself to face Jascha in combat.

         Seven times Jascha approached the Trojan fortress and seven times he was beaten back until the handle of his little foam shield was broken off and he was left defenseless. First, William got a shot in from the back. Elizabeth got a shot in from atop a pillar. There was only one more needed and Henry shot Jascha square in the chest. His vest screamed and he dramatically died in the middle of the arena. Ernest, grinning, jumped right into the fray and he killed it, getting at least one shot in on all the Trojans and two on Henry.

        “What does Patroklus do now?” Jascha asked over the noise.

        “You’re dead!” Ernest laughed, “You’ll come back as a ghost and inspire me to bury our ashes together in a golden urn.”

        “Okay!” He called, and continued to be dead.

        As there was no Scamander for Ernest to fight, he switched right to Henry. He dropped and ran, circling the Trojans five times rather than the canonical seven because he got tired. There was an epic battle.

        “Please, let my wife and mother have my body to bury,” Henry begged, grin spread across his face. “I’m all they have left.”

        Ernest laughed and gently pressed his foot triumphantly on Henry’s chest until the proctor told him to stop. “You have killed my beloved, prepare to die,” he said before Henry got in a final shot. He killed Henry, who died quietly.

        “William, I’m his beloved?” Jascha whispered.

        “Yeah, I thought we had been over this,” William smiled sweetly. “And I’m Aeneas. Not William, I don’t know who that is.”

        “Anisas,” Jascha tried to repeat.

        “Aeneas,”

        “Anilas,”

        “Aeneas,”

        “Aenayas?”

        “Close enough,” William shrugged and prepared to take his place. They turned around to a scream and Ernest clutching his chest. Jascha almost ran up to help him before remembering it was just a game.

        “Paris wins!” Lizzie shouted as she jumped down from a pillar.

        “Not quite!” Justine had used her dark clothes and position of friendship with Lizzie to sneak her way into the crevice with the flag, holding it high above her head.

        “Well ha, ha; gloat now. But you die boringly and are associated with albatrosses for the rest of your afterlife.” Lizzie scrunched her nose.

        “And now I get to lead the surviving Trojans to freedom!” William called from on top of Ernest’s shoulders.

        Their session ended and William decided that he wanted ice cream, which everyone more than happily obliged. The place was called Maggie Moo’s and it was Henry’s entire childhood. There was nothing on this earth better than Maggie Moo’s cotton candy ice cream with gummy bears. He and Victor had fought over it many a time. It was simply the best and not weird at all, thank you very much.

        So, that’s what Henry got and everyone made fun of him for it, even William, the little traitor. He got mint chocolate chip and nerds so he really shouldn’t have been one to talk about it either.

        Once they had eaten their fill of sugar and conversation waned, William hugged Henry and whispered, “I wish Victor could have celebrated with us.”

        “I know, buddy,” Henry whispered back. “He would have wanted to.”

        “Why didn’t he?”

        “I think he just needs to be alone for a while,” Henry sighed.

        “Does he love me?” The question broke his heart.

        “Of course he does. He loves you very much.” Henry was about to suggest that William talk to him before he went to sleep, but thought better of it. “We all love you so much.”

 

* * *

  

         “Hello, Mrs. Valdez, this is Victor Frankenstein…” Victor leaned back against the desk and twisted the phone cord around his wrist, keeping his eyes on the notes in front of him. “Yes, you’re right, it has been a while!...I’ve been well. Very busy, end of school year and all...Still working on that independent project, yes...That’s actually why I was calling.”

        Victor frowned as Mrs. Valdez launched into a prattle about how good it was to see young people passionately interested in the future of funeral homes. He barely resisted the urge to tune her out as she started in about ‘the dying art of embalming.’

        “Mhm...Yup...No, I absolutely agree, young people these days have no drive…” He shuffled his work to pull up the notes he’d made on the Beckinfield Funeral Home last spring. “Yeah, I know,” he read off, “coffin purchases are down nineteen percent, right? Disgraceful.”

        “I know!” Mrs. Valdez shouted in his ear. “It’s a shame on my business, but everyone nowadays wants to be cremated.”

        “Hm.” Victor hummed. “A horrible idea, I completely agree. Why burn your body when you can just wait for the maggots to liquidize it from the inside out the way nature intended?”

        “Yes.” Mrs. Valdez said firmly. “They need to buy expensive coffins so I can fund my parents’ retirement.”

        Victor didn’t have anything to say to that. “So,” he inserted the sweetest air he could muster into his tone, “about my independent project, I’m taking a slight detour from, uh” he glanced to the scrambled notes once more, “‘studying the medical consequences of upper class alcoholism on the pancreas’ and trying to tie in a study of the eyes. I was wondering if you’d seen any hazel eyes pass through your parlor in the last few days?”

        “Hazel?” Mrs. Valdez replied doubtfully. There was some shuffling on the other end of the line. “Yes, I think I’ve seen one or two people this week. Very specific color choice.”

        “Well, I’m looking for a genetic link between hazel eye coloring and susceptibility to premature death.” Victor answered confidently, fully aware that everything that was coming out of his mouth was a giant pile of horseshit. “If I could ask for a favor, I’d love a few pictures of the eye coloring on those two people along with some info on their cause of death, burial plans, etc. I won’t ask for names or anything, of course, I know that steps outside the bounds of what is acceptable.”

        Mrs. Valdez hesitated. “I really shouldn’t, Victor. Are you using these in a published study?”

        “Nope, this is all preliminary work. My eyes only.” Victor harnessed whatever shred of charm he had left as he forced his voice to smoothness. “C’mon, Mrs. Valdez. Can’t you bend the rules just a smidge. For me?”

        There was a beat of silence then a sigh. “Okay, okay, fine. But only because I know you’re trustworthy. I’ll fax you the pictures along with cause of death.”

        Victor grinned. “Thank you so much! I really appreciate it! You have my fax?...Good, good, and, uh, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you out with the home. I could, I don’t know, help you advocate against cremation with real-time decomposition demonstrations.”

        Mrs. Valdez snorted. “Your jokes are so odd, Victor.”

        “Yup. Jokes. I was joking.” Victor hovered one finger over the hook switch. “So, you’ll send those and I’ll talk to you later?”

        “Yes, I’ll send those right over. Goodbye, Victor.”

        “Bye!” Victor pressed the button and held the phone between his legs as he crossed Beckinfield Funeral Home off his list. Great. With the last home he had ties with checked off the list and plans made and finalized for surgery tomorrow, the only thing left to do was wait for the faxes to come in. He checked the study’s wall clock. According to his father, everyone was out playing laser tag to celebrate William’s birthday, which, theoretically, gave him free run of the house. More realistically, Victor was positive that if he attempted to leave the study again today, he would spontaneously combust from the stress of it, so he settled himself back in his dad’s chair.

        It was odd to be alone. Not that he was usually very involved in William’s birthday plans, but at least he was usually there. This time around, he hadn’t even been told what was going on until after everyone had left, and forget about presents or anything like that. The luxury he had always relied on, having Henry pick out something for him and claiming he’d thought of it himself, was completely unavailable to him.

        What did twelve year olds even like? Star Wars? Video games? Death? He supposed it didn’t matter anyway. He’d already missed the chance to get the kid a gift.

        Victor frowned and set aside his piles of notes. Then again, William liked Greek stuff. That might be something he could work with. He scrounged up a blank piece of paper from the bottom of the mess of work, secured a decently sharpened pencil, and set to drawing.

        The fax machine had screamed to life and startled Victor into a corner three separate times by the moment he heard the front door open accompanied by a burst of peeling laughter. He scooted over to the door and pressed his ear close to it, listening as Elizabeth recounted some great epic tale of heroism and sacrifice. Something about Paris. Not the city, the Greek guy, because the city would be way too normal for that crowd. Victor took a breath and opened the door. With one hand clenched around a file and the other firm around the handrail, he descended to the front hall.

        Everyone was still gathered together. Victor let his eyes skim over the scene. Jascha hovering awkwardly by Ernest’s shoulder. Liz jabbing light punches into Ernest’s side while Justine rolled her eyes, a small smile across her lips. William pressed into Henry’s side both giggling helplessly as Ernest feigned hurt and collapsed back to be caught by the Jascha, who let his panic melt to nervous laughter as William laughed harder.

        Victor swallowed. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t break up the happy scene. As he took a step back, hoping to beat a hasty retreat to the study, however, his foot caught one of the house’s many squeaky boards and all eyes turned to him. He withered beneath William’s curious, but cautious look; the way Jascha instinctively stepped closer to Ernest; the narrowing of Justine’s eyes. He didn’t even dare look at Henry. He couldn’t.

        Victor shuffled in place for a second, trying to weigh the pros and cons of just booking it, before Elizabeth’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Well,” she drawled with a smirk, “looks like the vampire’s out of his cave.” She turned and poked William. “Did you summon him?”

        William batted her hand away and grinned. “He must have smelled your blood.”

        “Probably.” Elizabeth shrugged. She crossed the room to stand in front of Victor, voice dropping to a whisper. “Did you need me?”

        Victor blinked at her for a second before forcing a smile to his face. “Nah, your blood sucks. Way too sour for my taste.” He said at full volume.

        Liz gasped and drew away, holding a scandalized hand to her chest. “Betrayal from my own brother! I can’t believe it!” She turned to Justine. “Justine, Victor says he doesn’t love me!”

        “Bastard.” Justine said simply. Her face, as stoic as ever, offered the barest hint of a smile.

        “Yeah.” Victor said. His resolve was crumbling fast. He turned his attention to William. “I, uh,” he pulled the topmost sheet from his folder and held it out, “happy birthday.”

        William glanced between the paper and Victor a few times, face scrunched up in what may have been suspicion or what may have been confusion. He glanced to Henry, who said nothing, and back to Victor. Victor kept his eyes on the kid as he stepped forward and accepted the the drawing of a woman with a shield and eagle staff.

        “It’s, um…” Victor trailed off as William examined the page, “it’s not much. I didn’t really plan this year and, well,” he smiled weakly, “I’m better at drawing anatomy models than, like, actual people-”

        “It’s Athena!” William announced, delight evident in his voice. “Victor, you drew this for me?”

        “Well...yeah. I--I figured Athena would be best ‘cause you’re, I don’t know...a wise kid and all that...” He fought for a moment to regain the cheer in his voice. “Plus it fits with you as a strategist. Was laser tag fun?”

        “Yeah!” William pulled the sketchy drawing close to his chest. “We reenacted the Trojan War. It was really epic. Henry was Hector.”

        “I can see it.” Victor said thoughtfully without actually looking to Henry. “Please tell me Elizabeth was pretty boy Paris.”

        “You bet I was!” Elizabeth yelled. “And I kicked ass!”

        Victor rolled his eyes. “As humble as ever, Liz.” He went to take a step away from William and was relieved when the kid matched him. “You guys should go see Dad. I think he’s making dinner.”

        “Are you going to join us?” William said hopefully.

        “I,” Victor let his eyes skitter to Ernest’s half-guarded stance, “I don’t think so.”

        “But it’s my birthday. Can’t you be released from baby jail for one night?”

        “Baby jail?” Victor raised an eyebrow. “No, the study is my dark fortress. I can’t leave it without a written invitation signed in blood.”

        William looked at him for a second then took off at a run down the hallway. Victor watched him go uneasily.

        Justine sighed. “I’ll go make sure he doesn’t cut himself. C’mon, Henry.”

        Victor stiffened as Henry walked past him, making sure his gaze was focused entirely on the front door and only allowing himself to relax once the other had left the room. The memory of the terror in Henry’s eyes still hadn’t left him. He forced himself to push it out in a deep exhale. “Liz, can I talk to Jascha for a moment?” He paused. “And Ernest too, I guess.”

        Elizabeth frowned at him. “You should probably ask Jascha that.”

        “Right.” Victor forced himself to met Jascha’s eyes. “Jascha, can I talk to you for a moment? About tomorrow? Ernest can stay too because you said he had to.”

        “Sure.” Jascha said. “Is it about-”

        “Cleaning my lab.” Victor cut him off. “Sure is. You want to go to the study?”

        Without waiting to see if the others were following him, Victor turned on his heels and started towards the stairs.

        The study was spacious by most standards, but with Ernest and Jascha facing him across the desk, Victor was left feeling cramped and confined. He fished the series of photographs out of his folder and spread them across the table. “Pick a color.” He said to Jascha.

        Jascha observed the photos the same way one might an old landmine. “What…” He pulled one of the eyes towards himself. “Whose are these?”

        “That one,” Victor swiped Jascha’s fingers from the picture and held it up to the light, “is from a young woman at the Johannesburg Funeral Parlor.”

        The bright blue of Jascha’s eyes took a sheen of anger and maybe fear. He pressed himself slightly closer to Ernest, who glared at Victor. “No.”

        “No?”

        “I don’t want...I’m not letting you steal anymore body parts for me.”

        Victor scoffed. “Relax, this isn’t the same thing.”

        “How is it not the same thing?” Jascha asked. “You’re taking things from other people’s bodies. What about their families?”

        “I already thought of a way around that.” Victor smiled his assurance. “These bodies are all set to be cremated. And the eyes are a very discrete part anyway. I can duck in, take the eyes, close the lids, nobody knows the difference.”

        “They wouldn't check that?” Ernest asked carefully. “Like, beneath the eyelids?”

        “No, Enrest, believe it or not we don’t live in Victorian England. Body theft isn’t much of an issue in suburban Chicago.”

        “Unless we’re counting you.” Ernest shot back.

        Victor frowned at him. “...Fair. But it still won’t matter. I guarantee they won’t be analyzing the bodies for missing parts before they throw them in the oven.” Victor set the photo back on the counter and sized up Jascha. The other man looked nauseous.

        Jascha shook his head. “It doesn’t work. None of these look exactly like mine did. My mother will still know the difference.”

        “Look,” Victor said, attempting to soften his voice and jagged stance, “I know this isn’t a perfect solution, but it would be impossible to match your color exactly, even if I had access to thousands more...resources.” He scrutinized the collection in front of him. “I still think it will be easier to explain a small change in color than your current blue.” He plucked up the leftmost example and offered it to Jascha. “This one is more green base than the others. What do you think?”

        Jascha took it delicately. “No.” He said after a moment and Victor felt a spike of relief that the other was finally cooperating. “It’s too green.”

        “Okay, well, you’ve got a table. Which one matches best?”

        Jascha bit his lip. Victor took a purposeful step back from the scene, letting himself wander over to the fax machine in the corner. While he switched it off, he could hear Jascha and Ernest muttering to one another. They really did move as one unit, those two. Victor couldn’t understand. They’d only known each other a little over a month and already they acted like they’d been together their whole lives. It was good for them, he supposed. Irritating for him.

        “Okay.” Ernest announced. “We’ve got it.”

        “Great!” Victor sprung to his feet and grabbed the photo from his brother’s hand, reading the text along the back. Majority brown with softer green undertones. Male, died falling off a roof, age twenty-three. Maria Funeral Home and Crematorium. “Great,” he repeated, “okay. Ernest, you’re still driving?”

        “Yes.” Ernest answered before Jascha could speak.

        “Cool. You’re going to drive me to pick these up before the surgery tomorrow.” Victor stretched his arms across the desk and shoved the eyes together like an accordian. “We’re still doing this tomorrow, yes?”

        “Yes.” Now it was Jascha’s turn to answer firmly. “Tomorrow.”

        “Cool, cool.” Victor said absently even as his chest sang with excitement and solid, dripping fear. “And Ernest is staying the whole time?”

        Jascha looked to Ernest, who nodded, still staring at Victor as if daring him to say no. “Yes, he is.”

        “Okay.”

        Ernest tilted his head. “You’re not going to fight us on that?”

        He wanted to. He really  really  did not want to be trapped in a room with Ernest for five hours, much less a nervous Ernest, but… “It’s your choice.” Victor admitted. “I’m just the doctor here.”

        “Then yes, I’m definitely staying.”

        Victor took a hard breath and once more thought over the terrible idea that had been brewing in his head since late last night. He needed Jascha to trust him in order for this to work. And, somehow...he needed to start making things right with Ernest too. “Did you-” he bit himself off, “did you want to help?”

        Ernest blinked at him. Looked to Jascha and back again. “Help?”

        “With the surgery.” Victor forced out through his gritted teeth. He paused and relaxed his jaw. “Do you want to help with the surgery?”

        Ernest was staring at him now, like Victor had grown a second head or maybe, more accurately, like Victor had announced that he’d decided to major in classical studies. “You want me to help you,” he asked slowly, “perform surgery on Jascha?

        “As long as Jascha’s okay with it.”

        “Yeah, I’m fine with it.” Jascha said quietly.

        Ernest didn’t even seem to hear him. “You want me,” he repeated, voice incredulous, “to help you? Do medicine?”

        “Ernest, if you make me repeat my statement-” Victor threatened.

        “But you don’t even think I’m in a real medical field!”

        “You’re not.” Victor said sharply. “You’re in sports medicine.”

        “Yet you want me to be a second doctor tomorrow?”

        “I want you to be a nurse.” Victor interjected. “An assistant.”

        Ernest continued to glare at him, suspicion heavy in his brows.

        Victor squared his shoulders. “I am merely trying to guarantee Jascha’s comfort in this procedure. And, as you have experience with human physiology and therapy, your...expertise could be useful within the operating room.”

        “So you’re admitting I’m good at something.”

        “No.” Victor snapped. He stopped himself and screwed his eyes shut. “I- Yes. I admit you’re good at your fucking sports medicine, okay? Do you want to help or not?”

        Ernest glanced to Jascha, who shrugged helplessly. “Okay. Sure. I’ll help you.” Reaching across the desk, Ernest stuck out a hand. Victor stared at in disgust.

        “I refuse to shake your hand.”

        “Then I guess I won’t help you tomorrow.” Ernest said calmly.

        “And if he’s not helping, I don’t want to do it.” Jascha threw in.

        Victor glared at each in turn before lightly grasping Ernest’s hand. “Happy?” He asked as he wiped the offended object on his pants.

        “Sure.” Ernest said and, somehow, Victor believed he meant it. He looked confident of himself at the very least as he took Jascha’s hand. “Jascha?”

        Jascha examined Victor as if he was trying to deduce his entire thought process from look alone. Panic had begun to creep once more over the man’s paling face. “And you’re not going to do anything?”

        “Like take your organs? Add new ones?” Victor asked. “No. And even if I wanted to, Ernest will be there and he’s got, like, fifty pounds on me, so…though I suppose it could be argued that I would be able to take you both out fairly effectively with my knowledge of major arteries. Did you want a quick run down of which ones to cut to insure death, that way we’re on equal footing?”

        “No.” Both men said quickly.

        Jascha still looked stressed beyond measure and Victor felt a twinge of sympathy for the man. This was a big procedure, long and painful and at least partially risky. Victor rounded the desk and, ignoring the way Jascha cowered back slightly, placed himself beside the other.

        He patted his thick arm awkwardly. “It’ll be fine.” He said in what he hoped was a calming voice. “No matter how terrible I am at taking care of myself or interacting with others or, like...existing. In general. I am a damn good surgeon. I can take care of this.” He glanced to Ernest. “ We .” He corrected reluctantly. “We can take care of this.”

        Victor stepped back and offered both men a small smile. “Now. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go to bed.”

        “Bed?” Ernest shook his head. “It’s eight o’clock.”

        “Yeah. And I have nine hours of therapy plus a surgery tomorrow and I’m pretty sure neither of you want me to be sleep deprived for it so. Get out. Don’t come back.” He shooed them towards the door and, right before closing it, shoved a slip of paper into Ernest’s hand. “That’s a diagram of the breaks in Jascha’s wrists. Do with it what you will.”

        He closed the door forcefully and sank to the floor with his back to it. Behind him, he could hear hesitation and then the retreat of footsteps. Victor sighed and rested his head against the cool wood.

        Being nice was...utterly exhausting.

 

* * *

  

        Jascha tried to get the piece of paper out of Ernest’s hands. Ernest tried and failed to lift it out of his reach, which was kind of cute. He got the folded piece of x-ray photograph paper.

        “Listen, you might not want to see it,” Ernest said as they climbed down the stairs to meet the others for dinner. Jascha looked skeptically at the paper, still folded.

        “Is it bad?” He whispered as they entered the dining room. He saw Ernest give him the slightest nod, and his stomach turned. They were  his  wrists. His actual wrists. For some reason that made it worse.

        “Everything okay?” Alphonse asked, eyeing Ernest with concern.

        “Yup,” Ernest said with a smile. “Victor, uh. Needed help reaching one of the books on the top shelf. He’s short.”

        Jascha looked at Ernest. Even he knew that was an awful lie, and he once confessed to having stolen a chocolate from a box given to his mother, cried for two hours, and insisted that they should put him up for adoption because he was a bad boy.

        “Jascha, are you alright? You should eat something.” Jascha looked at the food on his plate. He knew he was supposed to fast before a surgery. Anesthesia and all that. He looked to Ernest, who shook his head slowly.

        “I ate ice cream with William,” Jascha said. Alphonse and everyone else looked at him like they were expecting him to say something else. He wanted to curl up and die. “I…” He thought about the scalpels. Bone saws. He felt every scar on his body sting at the same time. “I need to go. Use the bathroom. Excuse me.” He got up and walked normally out of the room. Once out of sight, he sprinted up the stairs. He couldn’t get in to Ernest’s room without him, so he sat outside of it with his head between his knees. They were the only ones on the third floor, so it wouldn’t be a problem. He took the folded paper from his pocket.

        He knew people had bones. And he was reasonably sure that there were two arm bones in the forearm, and maybe two more in the wrist before the finger bones. He saw the little black breaks in the white images of his wrists. He counted them. Seven in his left, three in his right. One of the three in his right were clean through the bone. The others were just cracks. The ones in his left wrist were mostly small breaks or fractures, except for the one that sent one of the delicate arm bones out of his...arm. Jascha ran to the bathroom and threw up. He’d agreed to have those put back on him. No, he’d insisted. No wonder Victor had given him the horrible meat hands. He flinched as he felt someone touch his back.

        “Отойди от меня!” He cried, startled. He curled in the corner, burying his face in his hands.  “Get away from me!”

        “Okay,” Ernest sounded scared and a little hurt. Jascha felt bad. He hugged his knees and took a gasping breath.

        “I’m sorry,” he managed to say. He rocked himself slightly back and forth. “I’m sorry,”

        “Jascha, it’s okay,” Ernest knelt across from him. He picked up the x-ray, looking at it sadly. “You looked at it?”

        Jascha couldn’t speak, so he nodded.

        “What can I do to help?” Ernest said gently.

        “Can they be fixed?” Jascha choked out. Ernest looked back at the picture.

        “Yeah,” he said gently. “It looks nasty but it’s not that bad. With a few little screws and some pins everything-” 

        Jascha heard screws and pins and covered his ears and clamped his eyes shut. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to think about Victor putting metal inside him or touching his bones with the same hands that sorted his organs and threw out his eyes.

        “Hey,” Ernest took his hands, gently pulling them away from his ears. “What’s up? You’ve never been like this before.” Jascha squeezed his hands, and wanted to be held.

        “Can we go to your room?” Jascha asked. Ernest nodded, and helped him up. Jascha focused all his energy on moving his feet, and then not collapsing as he waited for Ernest to undo the locks. He curled up on Ernest’s bed, hugging one of the pillows and burying his face in it.

        “Jascha…” Jascha shook his head. He didn’t want to look at Ernest. Ernest looked a little like Victor, and he didn’t want to think about Victor. He wanted to keep his organs. Somehow, Victor was going to find a way back inside him and shuffle his body all over again. And Ernest would be there. What if Victor killed Ernest and used his eyes and his organs, just to add to the torture he’d already subjected all of them to? He curled up tighter. That was probably exactly what Victor was planning to do. Why else would he let Ernest come?

        “Hey,” Jascha felt Ernest petting his hair. “Talk to me, my dude.”

        “He’s going to kill you,” Jascha said into the pillow. “He’s going to kill you and put your organs in my body just so that we can be as miserable as him.”

        “He isn’t able to,” Ernest hugged him tightly. Jascha relaxed slightly under the familiar pressure. “No one is faster than me. He may think he’s the only one who knows where the arteries are, but I’m EMT certified.”

        “I’m going to be asleep,” Jascha released the pillow, rolling over to hug Ernest instead. “He could do anything to me and I wouldn’t know.”

        “I’ll be there,” Ernest whispered. “I won’t let him.”

        “It’s going to hurt,” Jascha said into Ernest’s sweater.

        Ernest sighed. “Yeah, it will. But it’ll heal.”

        “Will you still love me if my eyes aren’t blue?” Jascha asked,  barely audible.

        “Your eyes were hazel,” Ernest said gently. “I love you, and I don’t care what color your eyes are. It’s not like your eyes are what drew me to you.”

        “What did?” Jascha asked, closing his eyes and letting himself be comforted. Ernest was warm and safe. And he smelled nice and healthy, unlike Victor who seemed so sick all the time.

        “I don’t know,” Ernest said thoughtfully. “Just you.”

        Jascha hugged him tighter. That was the right answer. He felt so awful about so much of his body that any physical quality would have made him nervous. He still felt like himself on the inside, so if Ernest liked him for that, everything was fine.

        “What drew you to me?” Ernest asked warmly.

        “You’re nice,” Jascha said, smiling despite himself. “And the freckles.” He took a deep breath as Ernest kissed his head, finally letting go of some of the fear.

        “Are you going to be okay?” Ernest asked. “Should we get ready for bed?”

        Jascha nodded. They brushed their teeth and curled up together, wrapped safely in each other and the blankets. Ernest let Jascha be the little spoon, even though it was awkward due to their height difference, which Jascha was thankful for. He liked feeling Ernest’s arms around his middle, like a protective weighted blanket. He fell asleep surprisingly easily.

        The dream was about darkness. Jascha remembered it vaguely, the heavy pull of it on his limbs. It was sensationless, but smelled vaguely of iron. When he tried to move, it clung to his limbs and held them fast. If he opened his mouth, it filled his throat. He managed to look down, and saw the mangled remnants of his limbs. He was missing a whole leg, and the other one was torn as if it had been shredded by an animal. His left wrist was bent at an unnatural angle and a sharp piece of bone stuck through it like a spike. He heard something move in the blackness; footsteps, and the scrape of sharpened metal.

        “October fifteenth,” Victor’s voice said as he emerged from the shadows. “I’ve secured the body of Jascha Simonis. Age twenty...ah, he only just turned twenty two in late August. Along with him I’ve secured the organs and skeletomuscular systems of approximately seven individuals-”   
        The dream shifted. He felt something pulling at him, and the sounds of something wet coming away. Victor was standing over him, and his body was hooked to several strange machines. He watched as Victor lifted one heart from his chest, pale from disuse, and lowered another, vibrant one in. The cells were still beating. “October thirtieth,” Victor said quietly, “Organ transplant has begun now that all issues with the skeleton and musculature are fixed. Subject’s cells have been sustained on artificial blood and oxygen for the past two weeks, and any area that failed to thrive have been excised and replaced. I was lucky enough to be present for the death of another sample, and I managed to get the heart before apoptosis could begin in earnest-”

        It shifted again. This time there was light. A blinding, cold light in one of his eyes. “November ninth,” Victor said, though Jascha couldn’t see him through the light. “After some hesitation, I’ve decided to remove the subject’s natural eyes. They bear no significant flaw, but they’re hazel. Like...Well, notes. You know who. Anyway, I’ll burn them later. After talking to Clerval, we’ve agreed that blue eyes will be the most beautiful against his hair and face-”   
        This time the pain. Jascha felt something hit him, square in the chest, so hard that he didn’t feel the pain until it was over. He heard someone crying, and the breaking of glass. Rain and thunder. He felt cold, and he wanted to call out to whoever was in the room. “ I think I’m bleeding ,” he’d tried to say, as he felt something sticky rolling down his chest. He heard more breaking, and felt the chill of the wind. “ Please help .” He drew and breath, and with it came the feeling like razors running in perfect lines over his chest, arms, and legs. He screamed, and sat bolt upright.

        “Jascha!” Ernest called. Jascha couldn’t hear him. He was clutching at his chest. He tore off the shirt and ran his fingers over the scar, sealed and pink. He heaved panicked breaths, feeling the cut but seeing no blood. He could feel it’s slickness on his fingers, but he could see nothing. He jumped as Ernest put a hand on his arm.

        “No!” Jascha yelled, flinching away. He saw only the dark hair and eyes in the low light. He couldn’t see the freckles. “Please, Victor, no! I’m not an experiment!” He slammed himself into a corner, curling in on himself again.

        “Jascha, please,” Ernest said softly, his voice pained. “Please let me help,”

        Jascha closed his eyes and covered his ears. Like his parents taught him, when he’d panic before concerts. He thought of his mother. She’d hold him and stroke his hair. He counted in Lithuanian, then Russian, forwards, then backwards, then in twos, threes, and fives. Like his father taught him. He flinched again when Ernest turned on the lights.

        “Please,” he could hear Ernest through his hands. He could hear the panic rising in his voice even as he tried to keep it quiet. “It’s me. I’m not Victor. I’m never going to hurt you.”

        He looked up cautiously. He saw freckles, and curly bedhead. Warm brown eyes that were wide with fear and hurt. Jascha slowly uncovered his ears as the slicing pains in his chest subsided into a dull ache. Ernest watched him carefully, touching him lightly on the knee.

        “It was a dream,” Ernest said quietly. “You had a bad dream.”

        A dream. That made sense. Jascha only ever seemed to experience that kind of physical agony in dreams. He nodded slowly, trying to get his erratic breathing under control. He was heavy and numb from the adrenaline, his mind unfocused and still half lost in sleep. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He could still feel the black ichor in his throat, and he could still hear the wet sounds of Victor changing out his eyes.

        “Jascha,” Ernest said slowly, as if he were talking to a frightened dog. “Can I touch you?”

        Jascha shook his head. He couldn’t handle hands on him. He didn’t want Ernest to get blood on him. He looked at his hands. They felt so sticky and sore, but when he looked at them all he saw were healed scars and clean skin. He looked back to Ernest, who was biting his lip. He was trying not to cry. It was one of his tells. Jascha drew a few heavy, deep breaths, keeping eye contact with Ernest. He focused on his eyes. They were warm, like dark honey or melted caramel. Not like Victor’s. They lacked his sharpness; his apathy.

        “Ernest…” Jascha finally managed to say. He felt the razor pains replaced by the crushing weight of guilt. He was the one making Ernest cry, and that was something he’d sworn not to do. “I’m sorry,” he said weakly. He made himself uncurl enough to reach out and touch Ernest’s hand. Ernest held his lightly.

        “I’m just worried about you,” Ernest wiped his eyes. “Come back to bed?” Jascha shook his head. Ernest looked back at the fluffy down comforter and the pillows. “Can I bring the bed to you?” He asked with a tired smile. Jascha nodded.

        Ernest peeled the comforter off his bed and got the pillows. He wrapped Jascha up in the blanket tightly, and Jascha shifted so Ernest could place a pillow behind his back. Jascha pulled the blanket even tighter around himself, inhaling the comfortingly familiar smell of Ernest that lingered on it. He let Ernest hold him through the blankets, happy to be held without having to cope with the fact that he still felt like he was bleeding everywhere. He kept checking the blankets to make sure he wasn’t getting blood on them.

        “Are you feeling better?” Ernest said quietly, breaking the long silence. Jascha was still wrapped in the quilt, but was laying more or less in Ernest’s lap. He was still curled up, afraid that if he moved either the pain would start again or his intestines would fall out.

        “Not really,” Jascha admitted. “We can go back to the bed, though.” He didn’t want to, but he was worried Ernest was cold. He was wearing a t-shirt, and the house was drafty.

        “You’re gonna have to sit up,” Ernest said gently. “I can’t carry you.”

        Jascha managed to sit. It took a much longer time than he expected, as each movement made his scars ache. Ernest grabbed the pillows and returned them to the bed. Jascha walked over slowly, finally unfurling the comforter back over the two of them. He lay half-on top of Ernest, allowing himself to be touched. Even if he felt the blood, he knew it wasn’t real.

        “Is it about the surgery tomorrow?” Ernest asked, rubbing Jascha’s shoulder gently.

        Jascha nodded. He was afraid to talk and feel the darkness in his throat.

        “It’s gonna be okay,” Ernest said quietly. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”

        Jascha held him tighter. He could hear his heart beating, even and strong.

        “Can you be the one to put the screws in?” Jascha asked. He breathed easier when he found his throat free from cloying ichor.

        “I...I can ask Victor if I can help, but Jascha, I’m, like, super not a surgeon.” Ernest said weakly. Jascha felt his heart sink.

        “You’ll keep me safe, though? You won’t let me bleed to death?” Jascha remembered the ambulance. He wasn’t sure whether it was blood loss that got him, but he remembered there was a lot of it. He cringed. “ Please, that’s my baby, you need to let me go!”  He heard his mother’s scream again, and closed his eyes. He felt tears sting his eyes. There was no way she was still alive. Not if she thought he was dead. Would his father be okay?

        “I won’t let anything happen,” Ernest said, pulling him from his quickly darkening thoughts. “I’ll be the last thing you see when you go to sleep and the first thing you see when you wake up. Okay?”

        “Ernest,” Jascha said seriously. “I need to call my parents.”

        “Okay,” Ernest said, surprised at his tone. “Now?”

        “I...Yes,” Jascha said quickly. “Can I use your phone?”

        “It’s three in the morning,” Ernest said gently. “Should you maybe wait?”

        “No,” Jascha said firmly. Ernest handed him his phone, and he typed in the number for their Chicago landline. He figured that if Victor had his body, they must have come home.

        It rang. And rang. He almost hoped no one would pick up.   
        “Hello?” A tired man’s voice said. It wasn’t his father.

        “Hello. Is Kassia Simonis there?” Jascha asked, trying not to panic.

        “Who is this?” The man asked. “Why are you calling at three am?”

        “I’m her son. Is she there?” Jascha asked, his voice choking up.

        “Uh, she’s still in Russia with her husband…” Jascha covered his mouth with his hand to keep from crying audibly. She was alive. If she was in Russia, she was alive. “Can I like, give her a message from you? Why don’t you have their Russian number?”

        “I lost it,” Jascha forced his voice to be even. “Can you give it to me?”

        “Uh, yeah, no problem…” Ernest grabbed him a piece of paper and a pen. He listed down the numbers he gave him, hands shaking nearly too badly to write.

        “Thank you so much.” Jascha said. “I’m sorry to have called so late.”

        Jascha hung up and hugged the number to his chest, holding it like it was a protective charm. Ernest kissed his cheek and settled against him, saying something sweet. Jascha couldn’t hear him over the knowledge that his mother was alive. If she was in Russia, that meant she was absolutely not getting left alone long enough to do anything stupid. He closed his eyes, thinking of his terrifying uncles and aunts. Judging by the area code, they were probably with Uncle Mikhail, which meant they were also with his grandmother. Maybe one of his aunts. Whatever the case, it meant that his parents were safe and that they weren’t alone together in their apartment mourning his death by themselves.

        When he slept again, he dreamt of home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Отойди от меня- "get away from me"


	37. Bandages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry suffers. Victor performs surgery. Jascha has his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Hope you're enjoying the story!
> 
> Trigger warnings: Descriptions of medical horror/surgery, body horror, panic attacks, sexual violence, references to homophobic upbringing.

        How many days could Henry go without sleep? The answer, of course, depended entirely on his age, his constitution, and his exposure to Victor. When he was eleven, he lasted about three days before he passed out in science class and needed to be taken to the nurse. It was the first time his father truly hit him and he finally fell asleep listening to Victor rant about the dueling laws of Chicago. 

        When he was thirteen, he didn’t truly sleep for a week after Caroline died. Neither did anyone else. He had fallen asleep while watching William and woken up every twenty minutes, terrified that the baby was dead in his crib. Eventually, Ernest and Lizzie were able to drag him back to his house where he was beaten for coming home too late while his mother sobbed. 

        When he was fourteen he didn’t sleep for months. Well, not literally. There were flashes stolen here and there, probably no more than three hours a day, none of them consecutive. Victor tried his best to convince him he was safe, but it never really worked. He caught hints of relief here and there, pressed into Victor’s chest, but it was never enough to make him feel alive again. Victor really tried, though. He would gently comb through his hair and wipe the tears from his eyes. 

        It was not often that Henry saw Victor cry, but when he did, it was begging Henry to come to bed. The issue after that became the dreams. The trauma of reliving Victor’s death and agony every single night was more exhausting than just staying awake, so he didn’t sleep. Ever. No one noticed either, except for Victor. 

        When he was seventeen, he stopped sleeping again when Victor stopped calling him from Ingolstadt. To this day, he doesn’t really know what happened and still, sometimes he dreams. Victor might be Victor and prone to these kinds of breakdowns, but they were never over nothing. It killed him. Something bad happened and he had no idea and Victor never told him, probably will never tell him. And then Victor was gone. He was only in the hospital for a month during the summer. He was even allowed to start their first year of college on time, but he was gone for a month and Henry never actually knew why. 

        When he was twenty three, Henry stopped sleeping because he was terrified; terrified of what Victor said to him and terrified of the dreams. And now there was no one to comfort him. Sleepless nights were, unfortunately, never truly sleepless. He got maybe and hour or two a night and they were torture and just enough to keep him alive. 

        Now, Henry dreamed of Victor and it was fine. It was just fine as far as he could tell. It was night and they were outside by a fire, the fire by Bastion, before it was turned into a hell hole. They had looked at the stars and told stories and it was lovely. 

        They kissed. As far as he knew, Victor never told anyone and neither did Henry. It was quick. They had been talking about how Henry had never kissed anyone before and he was sixteen and that was unacceptable. And Victor had offered. It really was Henry’s dream come true. But now, instead of the panic and awkwardness and the confessions of heterosexuality, Victor stayed and held his hand. 

        “You look beautiful,” Victor said, tracing a finger down the back of his neck.

        “I...do?” Henry was startled. This isn’t how he remembered this going. 

        “You do. Like an amber statue,” he cocked his head and mused. “Or butterscotch. You’re very sweet.”

        “Victor, are you sure you’re well?” Henry asked.

        “Of course, sweetheart. Why wouldn’t I be?” Victor looked worried. “Has something happened?”

        “No, no, I don’t think so.” He shook his head. 

        Victor ran his hand under his shirt, letting his thumb trail just above Henry’s navel. Henry felt heat pool in the pit of his stomach. Victor leaned into the crook of his neck and started to kiss his jugular. His hands continued to move under Henry’s shirt until it was no longer practical to keep it on.

        “Victor,” he panted. “Are you sure? I had never thought...I mean, you didn’t really show any signs before--”

        Victor stopped his question with a burning kiss. “I want you to fuck me, Henry.” He resumed his work at his neck, leaving deep red marks. Henry moaned and let his head fall back, every sensation buzzing so hard he couldn’t think. 

        “Fuck...you?” he managed to stammer. “Me?”

        “Let me make you feel good, sweetheart.” He playfully bit Henry’s earlobe, eliciting a loud gasp. 

        “Victor, I don’t know if I can--” He pushed Henry to the mossy ground and set to work with his tongue on his nipples. Henry could feel the blush creep from his cheeks to his chest. 

        “Please, baby. For me?” Victor’s eyes were as dark as the night and only barely caught the light of the fire. 

        Baby? That was new, but his eyes were so sweet, and his voice so caring. As far as he knew, this was never going to happen ever again. “I...can try,” Henry agreed. “For you.” 

        Victor practically giggled with delight as he pressed a line of kisses down Henry’s chest and stomach, settling himself between his legs. He looked devilish and so very hot with his fingers curled around Henry’s waistband. He unceremoniously disrobed Henry and then himself. Time seemed to swirl and melt like snow. This Victor looked like his Victor. The Victor that was sleeping in the house right now. 

        “Oh sweetheart,” Victor mewled. “You’re already so hard for me.” He pressed a kiss to the base of Henry’s cock and maintained eye contact while he licked up its entire length. The noise Henry made was obscene and shook through his chest. Victor continued to press open-mouthed kisses to the crease of Henry’s thighs and cock while he used his other hand to get hard. By the time Victor returned to lay at his side, Henry had clamped his hands over his mouth in a desperate attempt not to wake their many neighbors. 

        “You are so needy,” Victor hummed into his ear and he pressed down on the head of his cock, leaving a smear of precum on his stomach. “You’re so pretty for me.” He pushed two fingers into Henry’s already half open mouth. It was weird. Victor curled his fingers against his tongue and let them be coated with Henry’s saliva. He decided he liked it, actually. The slight pull at his lips and the closeness to Victor felt divine. “You look like a whore. Every man in the world would pay to see you like this.”

        “What?”

        “Won’t you take me, Henry?” Victor’s half lidded eyes begged for him. Henry knelt between his legs and traced gentle circles into his bony hips.

        “What do I do?” He asked. 

        “Just do it. Fuck me.” Victor’s eyes rolled back in his head. 

        “But I don’t want to hurt you,” Henry explained. His voice was barely more than a whisper, but it seemed to carry through the entire camp. 

        “Fuck me.”

        “But Victor--”

        “Fuck. Me.” Victor grabbed Henry’s shoulders and growled into his ear. And Henry did. He was slow and gentle, exactly like how he always was. Victor’s face contorted with pleasure though, so he sped up a little bit. Victor held one hand against his chest. This was good. It was going well, Henry though. He felt bad and kinda gross for inflicting himself on Victor, but it was okay. He could work that one out. It had only been deeply ingrained since he was fourteen years old. No big deal. 

         And then Victor screamed. Not a scream of pleasure, like in a bad porno. No. It was agony. It was the type of scream that Henry would wake up to after his nightmares. He pulled away from Victor as if he had been made of molten obsidian.

        “What happened? What’s wrong?” Henry asked as he cradled Victor’s head in his arms. He pressed his nose into his hair and rubbed circles behind his ears. He didn’t answer, but he could feel his tears on his knee. 

        Henry took stock of their surroundings. Nothing. Nothing except blood. “Victor?” he asked. “Why are you bleeding?” No response, just quiet sobbing. At first he thought it was Victor, but no. He seemed fine. It was him. “Does that normally happen the first time?” Nothing. “Victor? Victor?” Henry’s voice pitched into a shriek. 

        “I wanted you to make it hurt,” he whispered. Henry didn’t notice as Victor move his hips to rub his cock against his thigh.

        “No, no, no. I can’t. I can’t do this. I made you bleed, Victor,” Henry yelled. “I made you bleed!”

        “Hurt me again?” Victor begged. “And again and again and again?”

        “No, no. I can’t! You don’t deserve it Victor.” He let go of Victor’s head and it cracked when it hit the ground. He came onto Henry’s skin.

        Henry woke up staring into Alphonse’s eyes, not Victor’s. “You really shouldn’t sleep at 5pm, Henry,” he lectured. “How on earth you’ll sleep tonight is completely beyond me.”

        “Does he really want me to hurt him?” Henry asked. It took everything in his power not to bury his face in Alphonse’s shoulder and weep.

        “Who?” he cocked his head.

        “Victor,” Henry’s voice started to break. “He...he really wants me to hurt him, doesn’t he?”

        Alphonse placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder and that was enough on an invitation for him to openly sob. 

        “I don’t think he would want that--” It was not often that the great lawyer Alphonse Frankenstein couldn’t find the words. 

        “I don’t want to hurt him.” Henry felt bad that he was getting his nice suit wet with his tears.

        “I know,” Alphonse whispered into Henry’s hair. “You won’t hurt him. I promise.” Henry didn’t notice that he was crying too. 

 

* * *

 

        Securing the eyes was a simple enough matter, made easier by the fact that Victor had already stolen from this particular funeral home before and therefore knew where all the cameras and alarms were. All he really had to do was get Ernest to drop him off around the back, pick the five locks between him and the morgue, avoid the front desk camera, and pop the eyes out and into a jar of formaldehyde. Honestly, the hardest part of the operation was climbing back into the car to be greeted with Ernest’s horrified gaze and demands to hide the clear glass from his sight. The wuss.

        Setting up the lab for surgery was a bit more taxing. Without the advantages of an actual operating room, Victor was forced to be creative in making the main table and space hospitable to living bodies. This included clearing out the excess of long spoiled coffee cups and rigging the second hand anesthesia machine into one cramped corner. 

        As he worked, he allowed Ernest to handle the more laborious task of calming Jascha and assuring him of the procedure. Even floating back and forth across the room, prepping instruments and checking samples, the two could be heard whispering about organ transplants and death and the great evil that was Victor Frankenstein. 

        Victor rolled his eyes. While he supposed, given the unusual history between them, Jascha might have the right to be suspicious of his actions, realistically if Victor wanted to kill either of them, he would have done it already. It was alarmingly easy to murder people, especially if those people had emotional connections to the murderer as Ernest and Jascha did, if only by association to Henry and Liz. Better not to point that out though. Might make them nervous.

        With great care, Victor pulled the new set of eyes from his bag and examined them. They looked hazy floating in the yellowed formaldehyde, unfocused and puffed, but soon Victor knew they would be sharp and alive once more. He put them on the shelf to one side of the room and made sure to turn the irises away from his line of sight. 

        “Okay.” He announced to the room at large. Jascha seemed to jump out his skin, one hand reaching out to grab Ernest’s hand tight enough that Victor could hear the knuckles popping. Victor raised an eyebrow. “You ready?” He asked, trying to maintain an expression evenly distributed between engaged and disinterested. 

        Jascha glanced to Ernest, who offered him an encouraging smile. When Jascha didn’t say anything, Ernest took the lead. “We’re ready.”

        “Cool.” Victor replied. He patted the table. “Up and at ‘em.”

        Jascha took a shallow breath and stepped forward on shaky legs. It took him two tries to make it onto the table even with Ernest supporting his arm. Victor kept a respectable distance from the duo as they moved. The last thing he needed, after all, was Jascha having a panic attack in his very cramped, very fragile lab space. Though, in thinking it over, it was doubtful that Jascha was the kind to throw things while panicking. He was probably one of those sit in a corner and cry type.

        Victor pulled on a coat and a pair of gloves before returning to the table. He offered Ernest the other pair. “Are you ready?”

        Ernest took the coat but set the gloves aside. At Victor’s questioning look, he placed one hand on Jascha’s shoulder. “I’ll wait till he’s under.”

        Victor shrugged. “Whatever.” He glanced to the door. “You guys need me to, like, use the bathroom while you cry or something?”

        Ernest glared at him harder. Jascha just closed his eyes, apparently trying to maintain his breathing, which was quickly turning ragged. 

        Victor held up his hands. “Just asking, not judging. If we want to get this done before three am though, we should probably get started.”

        “Okay.” Jascha said quietly. 

        That was all the conformation Victor needed. With unpracticed ease, he set about fixing the machine’s multitude of buttons and drew the anesthesia mask over Jascha’s mouth and nose. He secured it firmly in place. “Breath normally and this will knock you out in a few minutes. You’ll feel a bit woozy as soon as you start.” He glanced to Ernest and took a step back from the table.

        He didn’t have much to distract himself with but he made his best effort as Ernest comforted Jascha, first with small shoulder touches, then by petting his hair as the other’s body relaxed into sleep. So invested, it seemed, was Ernest in ensuring Jascha’s serenity that it took Victor a few minutes to notice the other had gone completely under. 

        He shot Ernest an irritated look. “You should have told me he passed out. We only have so much anesthesia to spare.”

        “Can’t you get more?”

        “No.” Victor said promptly. “Technically this batch is stolen and since I’m on medical leave, I can’t access the materials closet to grab more.”

        “Is there anything in this lab that isn’t stolen?” Ernest asked doubtfully. 

        Victor grinned and tapped Jascha’s upper chest. “They gave me the heart. But beyond that, nope. All stolen.”

        Ernest’s face grew slightly green as he shoved Victor’s hand away. “Let’s just get this over with.” He muttered.

        “Yup.” Victor chirped. He picked up Jascha’s hand and examined the healed scars circling his wrist before grabbing a scalpel off of his cart. “So.” He directed his words to Ernest as he began to carefully carve through the skin of Jascha’s wrist. “You’re going to want to start dealing with getting the IV going and prepping some extra blood.”

        Ernest blinked at him. “Wait, shouldn’t we have done that before starting?”

        “I mean, yeah, but I got excited.” Victor laughed slightly as Ernest began to shuffle around, looking for the proper equipment. “Relax, you don’t need to rush. This is surgery, not a rescue mission. Your EMT training isn’t as applicable.”

        Ernest paused in inserting the IV. “You know about the EMT training?”

        “I mean, yeah. It would make sense that you’d do it in undergrad and you wouldn’t have volunteered to help me if you weren’t at least partially trained for this.” He glanced over. “Put that in deeper.”

        “I know how to do it.” Ernest responded. “...Did you do EMT?”

        “No. Working with panicked people sounds terrifying. I prefer sleeping ones.” Victor answered easily as he began to dig into the muscles of Jascha’s wrist. “Or dead ones. Those are even better.”

        Ernest frowned as he stepped away from the fully injected IV. “Have you ever actually performed surgery on a living person?”

        Victor waved a loose bloody hand. “Ish.”

        “Ish? What do you mean, ish?”

        “I’ve aided in a few surgeries as a student assistant. Watched more than a few, but most of my experience comes from cadavers.”

        “I thought you said you were good at this.” Ernest said, a slight note of panic entering his voice. “You’re telling me this is the first surgery you’ve ever conducted on your own?”

        “I _am_ good at this.” Victor emphasized. Beneath his fingers, the whites of Jascha’s soon to be disconnected bones shone through the swelling of blood. “I am fully equipped and capable in this scenario. Besides,” he examined the already present line of melded bone, the proximal row connected to Jascha’s radius, “it’s not like you guys had any other options on this one. I’m the only shady surgeon you know.”

        “Well,” Ernest muttered angrily, “if you’d never done this in the first place-”

        “Then you wouldn’t have a boyfriend.” Victor inserted with a pleasant smile. “So you’re welcome.”

        “You’re a real ass, you know that Victor.”

        “So I’ve been told.” Victor leveled the wrist and glanced to Ernest. “Now, this is the point at which I would advise you look away.”

        Ernest threw an uneasy glance to the partially bloody hand. “Why?”

        “Because I’m about to start cutting through the tendons then I’m going to pop this sucker right off. And you once puked over seeing my nose bleed.”

        His brother hesitated another moment before swallowing. “I’m okay. I told Jascha I’d be here the whole time.”

        “You can still be here without puking on my floor.” Victor offered helpfully. Ernest didn’t budge. “Fine. Your funeral.” Victor snatched up the sharpened scissors resting beside the table and quickly began to snap the tendons, creating audible echoes throughout the dim lab space. After a few solid strokes, the hand fell away. Victor hoisted it up with a grin. “One down-”

        “Just put it away!” Ernest yelled.

        “Jeez,” Victor lowered the object, “don’t blow a gasket, it’s only a dead hand.” He turned and walked over to the bin by the cabinets, hoisting the solid white lid up and aside. From within, a blast of cold air rushed to meet him. He dropped the hand inside the fridge along with a few other discarded bits of decomposing flesh and shut it before prancing over to the cabinet proper. “Okay,” he said softly as he searched through the assorted jars, “I think I left it behind- ah, bingo!” He pulled out Jascha’s left hand with a flourish and displayed it to Ernest. 

        Ernest looked distantly horrified. “You were just keeping it in a fucking jar?”

        “Well, more like a stable system.” Victor disconnected the small pump from the back of the jar. “Simulates the flow of blood. Pretty ingenious, right?”

        “Victor, I am not going to _praise_ you for tearing off Jascha’s hands so please stop asking me to.”

        “Tough crowd.” Victor wandered back to the table and popped the jar’s secure lid. He gestured Ernest to come stand beside him, which the other did grudgingly. “So what we’re going to do here is stitch up the lower half of the wrist then work on pinning the bones and reconnecting the muscles. For efficiency's sake, I thought you could handle the muscle reattachment and the final stitch work so that I can get started on the other wrist. Think you can handle it?”

        “Yes.” Whether Ernest’s confidence was real or imposed for the sake of disauding Victor from changing his mind about letting him help was beyond his knowledge but nevertheless Victor began stabilizing the wrist. The first part of the procedure was difficult, but peaceful as Victor worked to connect small bits of wire around inserted pins, gradually coaxing the bones back into a healable shape. The breakage was more gruesome in person that Victor had remembered, simple fractures in certain areas, near to snaps in others. The left side, especially, was doomed to dissolve into a mess of connective, corrective materials. Internally, Victor resolved to put Jascha on a stronger dosage of pain meds. He pulled back briefly to check in with Ernest. “We’re onto the muscles.” He said. 

        “Right.” Ernest took over from him as Victor hung at his elbow, watching the process with an attentive eye. “No,” he piped up almost immediately, “not like that.”

        “Look,” Ernest shot back, “am I helping or not? Let me work. Go, I don’t know, pull the other hand off.”

        “But what if you mess up?” Victor said, slightly desperately. “Maybe I should just watch you do this one so I’m sure.” He reached forward.

        “Jesus Christ, Victor, get off my dick.” Ernest slapped his hand away. “Other hand. Now.”

        Victor stepped away from the table and threw Ernest a nasty look, which he didn’t seem to notice. “Fine.” He moved to the other wrist, allowing a jagged silence to settle over the room. Although it was welcome at first, the lack of reliable noise quickly became overbearing and anxiety inducing. Victor looked to Ernest, only to see the other immersed in his work, brows drawn with concentration and concern.

        Victor took a breath. “So.” He said.

        Ernest glanced up as if startled. He stared at Victor for a second, one hand still in the midst of pulling stitches. “So?”

        “So.” Victor repeated. “How did, uh…” he made an aborted motion towards Jascha, “this. Happen.”

        Ernest’s eyes flicked back and forth before settling on Jascha. “I mean...I think you would know better than me how Jascha is, like, alive again.”

        “No.” Victor paused. “I meant more like…” he corrected his gesturing so that it included Ernest.

        “Oh.” Discomfort overtook Ernest’s features along with reluctance. “We, uh. We met at the frat. ‘Cause Jascha ended up there after...things.”

        “And you guys just...hit it off?”

        “Yup.”

        “Great.” Victor paused and, reaching into the depths of his soul, forced himself through the next sentence. “I saw that his scars healed up pretty well. Your doing?”

        “Uh, yeah. They were pretty messy when he arrived so I took care of them.” Ernest was now pointedly not making eye contact while Victor struggled not to react to the backhanded insult.

        “Great.” Victor strained through gritted teeth. “Perfect. You did a good job.”

        “Thank you.” Ernest answered. “Better job than you did.”

        Victor yanked the partially amputated hand away from Jascha’s body with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. “Yup. Like I said. Good job.” Without looking, he threw the hand into the fridge to join its partner and scrounged the ‘real’ hand from the shelf. He looked over the more agile fingers trapped within the churning liquid with timid amusement. “Bet this will be a change.” He whispered.

        “What?” Ernest asked.

        “Nothing.”

        “No, what?” Ernest repeated. “You said something.”

        “I just said, I bet having these new fingers will be a change.”

        Ernest pulled the last stitch and looked to Jascha’s pale and settled face. He sighed, heavy with unspoken affection. “I mean, I’m sure it will be a change after this last month, but if it’s going to make him happier. Let him play the violin…”

        “Oh, wait, you thought I was talking about for him.” Victor interjected. “I meant for you. You guys are, like, fucking, right?”

        Ernest fumbled the needle in his hand. When he looked back to Victor, it was with wide, utterly disgusted eyes. “No.”

        “You’re not--”

        “I am not under any circumstances talking to you about this.” Ernest said forcefully. “Drop it.”

        Victor arched his eyebrows. “Ernest,” he said slowly, “there’s no part of Jascha that I haven’t already--”

        “Drop. It.”

        Victor held up his palms as well as Jascha’s in a sign of surrender before returning to his task. The second hand was easier than the first. Fewer breaks, fewer fractures, and about five less pins necessary. Like before, Victor allowed Ernest to manage muscle reconnecting, stepping away and towards the head of the table. 

        He leaned over Jascha, taking in his still form, the high cheekbones, delicate eyelashes, and sharp features. How many hours he’d spent pouring over this table? How often had he traced those features? Even for the month apart, Victor could still identify every curve and dip. Being back in the lab with Jascha was as comfortable as it was a knife twisting into his spine. He steadied himself and raised the man’s eyelid, taking in the unfocused blue beneath, soon to be replaced with a poisonous hazel. 

        “I’m going to get started on the enucleation of the eyes.” Victor let the eyelid snap shut. 

        “Shouldn’t we wait till the hands are set?” Ernest asked.

        “Do you want Jascha to wake up mid having his eyes dug out of his skull?”

        “...Go ahead.”

        Victor nodded and tacked the eyelid back properly with a metal scaffolding. “Look away, my dear squeamish brother.” Victor said dryly before diving around Jascha’s eyeball with a new pair of sharp scissors. In the background, Victor could hear Ernest draw a very sharp breath accompanied by a small sound of gagging. He continued on undeterred. It was satisfying to dig the ball out, especially since he had no reason to be especially careful with it once he had managed to slice through the rectus muscle and optic nerve. He popped the first eyeball out and onto his hand. “Got it.” He said. He dropped it on the side of the table where it rolled lazily down to strike Ernest’s pinky, leaving a trail of wet slime in its wake. 

        “Oh god!” Ernest’s voice rose a pitch or ten as he drew his hand away. “Oh shit!”

        “It’s fine.” Victor held out his hand without looking up. “Just give it to me and I’ll throw it out.”

        “I am not touching that thing.”

        “Wimp.” Victor snatched the mangled eyeball up and examined it mournfully. So pretty. Such a waste. He dropped it in the disposal and began to wrestle the second ball from its socket.

        Ernest was completely mute as Victor worked. Having finished on the wrist, with what Victor would begrudgingly admit was skill and grace, he had taken to standing by Jascha’s shoulder, forcing himself to watch Victor pull Jascha’s eyes apart with the meager resolve of one watching their Thanksgiving dinner be slaughtered. With each yank or twist, Ernest’s hand seemed to tighten on Jascha’s shoulder, grip gradually whitening with strain.

        Victor paused after successfully freeing the second ball. “You know,” he said with as much gentleness as he could muster, “you’re going to snap your fingers if you keep that up.”

        “Is that a scientific fact?” Ernest asked through clenched teeth, gaze still entirely focused on the bright blue and blood red eye in Victor’s loose grasp. 

        Victor hid the object behind his back. “It’s common sense.” He disposed of the eyeball and turned to Ernest. “If you want to step out for a moment, it really is fine. I’m not going to try anything and we don’t even have to tell him you left.”

        “I’m okay.” Ernest said softly.

        “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

        “I said I’m fine, Victor.”

        “Okay,” Victor relented, “I was just asking.” He turned to the shelf and picked up the new eyeballs, examining them quickly for ruptures or impurities. He sighed mournfully.

        “What’s your problem with them anyway?”

        Victor frowned and moved to fish the eyeballs out of the jar. “My problem with what? I have problems with a lot of things.”

        “Hazel eyes.”

        His hand tightened minutely on the jar, flicks of white in his field of vision. “I don’t know what you mean.”

        “You threw them out.” Ernest emphasized the word out like a curse. “And, according to Jascha, they were near to perfect. So why would you go to the trouble?”

        Victor forced his hand to relax and pulled up a smile. Not an easy, loose one, but one he knew his brother hated, tight and jagged and threatening harm. “It was an aesthetic choice. Hazel is an ugly color. It’s muddy and gross. I wanted my experiment to be perfect, to have eyes that matched the electricity throbbing through his heart. Don’t try to tell me you didn’t approve of my choice. You were attracted to them, after all.”

        “I liked Jascha.” Ernest was not backing down nor cowering away, but instead advancing around the edge of the table, towards Victor. He stood in front of Jascha, like the man’s own guardian angel. “Not his eyes, _him_. And I want to know why you got rid of his real eyes.”

        “Why does it matter?” Victor barked. He took a step in retreat only to realize there was no place to go as the shelf struck the small of his back. 

        “Because you’re you and I don’t trust that you won’t do something stupid. If this is an issue, I don’t want to have you see Jascha with hazel eyes again and, I don’t know, lose your shit over it.”

        Victor snorted. “Believe me, it’s not an ‘issue.’ Now, are we were finishing up this procedure tonight? Limited anesthesia and all that.”

        “Victor--”

        “Ernest,” Victor snapped with sudden ferocity, “back off. This is your last warning.”

        Ernest stared at him, stony brown eyes flashing. “I need you to tell me, Victor. I mean, fuck, it’s the very least you can do after everything you’ve done to us.”

        Victor took a breath, tasting fire. He prepared to follow through on his threat, to finally put an end to Ernest the way he promised he would when he was nine years old, only to have the anger shrivel to ash in his throat. He was supposed to be trying. He needed to try. He swallowed the uncomfortable clot of shame back with difficulty. “I’ve only known bad people with hazel eyes.” He forced the words out like he was scraping the blades of his scissors along the insides of his lungs, repeating the same he’d told to Jascha only two days ago. “I didn’t want to look at them.”

        Ernest’s pale face colored briefly with surprise before it surrendered to warriness. “Who have you known with hazel eyes?” His voice didn’t sound malicious but it wasn’t kind either. Victor could appreciate that. He didn’t think he’d be able to bear it if Ernest was kind to him.

        “A boy. In Ingolstadt.” 

        “A boy?” Ernest asked carefully. “Or a boyfriend?”

        Victor laughed without humor. “He would claim to be the latter, I think.”

        Victor strode forward and drew the first hazel eye from its encasement. There was a brief reprise of silence as he inserted the eyeball and began the laborious work of connecting it. Ernest continued to guard Jascha’s shoulder.

        “Did he hurt you?” He finally asked.

        “Yes.”

        “Badly?”

        “I mean,” Victor grinned vacantly, “you saw the aftermath.”

        Ernest searched his face then nodded. The aftermath of continued silence assured Victor that Ernest was not going to ask anymore, for which he was grateful. He was positive Jascha would be a little more than upset if Victor threw up in his empty eye socket. 

        The rest of the surgery passed in stillness with Victor working from instinct alone as his mind set itself to wandering in darker corners and places. Luckily, his hands were deft and his experience with eye surgery more than minimal. He had finished and bound a tight cloth around Jascha’s eyes before the clock properly struck two in the morning.

        At its conclusion, Victor allowed himself to take a step back. Two newly attached hands, long and slender fingered, wrapped firmly in casts which stretched halfway up Jascha’s arms and over the elongated palms. Two fresh hazel eyes ready for use. Minimal blood. An overall success, if he did say so himself.

        Victor stretched out his own aching fingers and sighed. “I’m going to go sit on the bench outside the door.” He said. “It’ll probably be better for Jascha if I’m not here when he wakes up. Let me know when I’m needed to check his vitals.”

        Without waiting for Ernest’s response, Victor walked towards the exit. Before he withdrew entirely, however, he stopped short. “You, uh. You did a good. I guess.”

        Ernest nodded. “Yeah. You too.”

        “Yup.” Victor heistated one more second before the weight of awkwardness grew too overwhelming.

        He shut the door, sat on the bench, and waited for Jascha Simonis to wake up.

 

* * *

 

        You don’t really dream when you’re under anesthesia. Or at least, Jascha didn’t. He panicked as he felt himself surfacing, unsure of whether the cutting had stopped. He couldn’t hear anything other than the quiet whirring of some lab equipment. He felt someone petting his hair. He tried to open his eyes, but was met with pain and darkness. He reached for his face, only to have someone catch his hand.

        “Slow down, buddy,” Ernest’s voice. Ernest was with him. 

        “Why can’t I see?” Jascha’s voice was hoarse and his mouth was dry. He felt heavy and dumb, slowed by the heavy narcotics. “Ernest…” 

        “Shh,” Ernest guided his hand carefully to the side of his face. He realized he was unable to bend his wrist or most of his fingers. He felt gauzy fabric. “We put bandages around your eyes. They need to, like, heal a little before you start straining the muscles. 

        “My hands…?” Jascha asked quietly, voice breaking. He was scared now. Each minute took more of the drug out of his system, leaving him with fear in its place. He couldn’t move and he couldn’t see. He felt entirely unable to defend himself. 

        “It’s okay, Jascha,” Ernest resumed petting his hair. He felt him kiss his forehead. “We got them. Your wrists are a little rough, but they’ll heal up fine.” 

        “I’m awake, right?” Jascha asked. He wanted to find Ernest’s hand and squeeze it, but his arms were completely restrained by their casts. “Ernest, I’m awake?” 

        “I promise,” Ernest said gently. “You’re gonna be okay, my dude.” 

        “Where’s Victor?” Jascha was no longer numb. Everything ached, and he felt a little queasy. His back hurt from laying on the metal table. He sat up quickly, and was pounded by vertigo. He felt Ernest’s hands on his shoulders, keeping him from standing up. “I want to leave.” 

        “We need to take it slow,” Ernest said firmly. “You’ve been out for a while, and I don’t want you to get hurt or fall.” 

        “I need to go.” Jascha tried to reach for his eyes, but Ernest caught his hand. He felt pain. Aching, breaking pain. He felt the first stabs of panic. Without being able to see the room, he felt confined and trapped in the dark. Like the car. “I need to leave,” he said again. 

        “We can leave, but we need to leave slowly,” Ernest said carefully. Jascha shook his head and tried to stand, only to have his legs immediately buckle. “Jascha!” Ernest yelled. He tried to catch himself on the table, but his wrists screamed as he moved. He felt Ernest catch him tightly under the arms, straining to keep him up. 

        “What’s going on?” Jascha heard Victor’s voice and flinched. 

        “He’s okay,” Ernest said with difficulty. He was using most of his strength to keep Jascha upright. Jascha tried to break free.

        “No,” Jascha said quietly. “No, no, no, I don’t want Victor to hurt me,” He found his feet and stood, but Ernest kept a vice grip on his shoulder. “Please, no. He’s going to hurt us,” Jascha felt dizzy. He leaned his weight against Ernest, for fear he might faint. 

        “No, he isn’t,” Ernest said softly, massaging Jascha’s shoulder. “It’s okay.” 

        “Ernest, I have some tranquilizers in the cabinet,” Victor said carefully. Jascha cringed backwards as he heard him taking steps towards them. Jascha recoiled as he felt Victor touch one of his casts, clattering back against the metal table. Ernest’s grip failed and he fell to his knees.

        “Jascha!” They both yelled. Jascha felt Ernest’s hands checking his casts and the bandages around his eyes. Pretty soon he heard a cabinet door close and Victor was back beside him. He flinched when Victor touched him, curling against Ernest. 

        “Ernest, can you offer him one of these pills?” Victor asked sharply. “I’m assuming he won’t take it from me.” 

        “Jascha, do you want to take some meds to help you calm down?” Ernest asked gently. Jascha relaxed a little now that he was being held, but he shook his head. 

        “No,” Jascha whispered. “No pills.”

        “Do you have any idea how bad a time you’re going to have if you won’t take pills?” Victor asked, voice condescending. “I put a grand total of, like, thirteen pins in your-”

        “Victor!” Ernest hissed. “He doesn’t have to take them right now if he doesn’t want to.”

        Jascha pressed himself closer to Ernest, resting his head against his shoulder. He felt dizzy and nauseous and absolutely terrified. He couldn’t even hide behind his hands, since they were locked up under layers of foam and plaster. “Can we just go?” He whispered to Ernest. 

        Ernest massaged the back of his neck gently. “We can go, but Victor is going to have to help you walk,” Jascha tensed, and Ernest kissed him quickly on his forehead. “You’re too big for just me, and I need to get the car and bring it closer to the door. He won’t hurt you.” 

        “Scout’s honor,” Victor said in what Jascha assumed was meant to be a comforting voice.

        Jascha let Ernest help him back to his feet. He felt Victor awkwardly lock his arm under Jascha’s other shoulder. He cringed away at first, but he needed the help. Together they made it slowly out of the lab and out to the first floor. When they reached the curb, Ernest let go. 

        “No,” Jascha said, half-drugged still. “Don’t go.” 

        “I’m just getting the car,” Ernest said quietly. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He reached for Ernest as he heard his footsteps receding. Victor’s grip on him tightened, straining as he had to support more of Jascha’s weight. 

        “Why are you so fucking heavy?” Victor hissed. 

        “I’m tall,” Jascha said. “I can stand on my own,”

        “No you can’t,” Victor said firmly. “You have so many drugs in your system, I’m surprised you’re even awake.”

        “Where’s Ernest?” Jascha asked. He couldn’t remember where he went, and he couldn’t remember why he was letting Victor touch him in the first place.

        “Getting the car.” Victor said flatly. 

        “How long has he been gone?” Jascha asked. It felt like days since he saw him.

        “Thirty seconds. At most.” Victor adjusted his grip on Jascha. 

        “Do I have to ride in the car?” Jascha asked. His legs ached. 

        “Unless you want to walk, like, thirty miles back to the house, then yes. You need to get in the car.” Victor said sharply. 

         _“My legs hurt,”_ Jascha said. _“I don’t want to go in the car.”_

        “I don’t speak Russian.” 

         _“I don’t want to_ get in the _car,”_ Jascha said again. He was certain it was English.

        “That was still about half-Slavic. Try again.” Jascha sighed and stopped talking. 

        Jascha startled as he heard a car pull up. He closed his eyes for a second and must have lost touch with the outside world. He was exhausted, and high. It made it hard to think. The car door opened and closed, and he felt the familiar warmth of Ernest’s hands on his arms. 

        “Ready?” Ernest asked gently. Jascha shook his head. 

        “ _I don’t want to die_ ,” Jascha muttered. He jumped when Ernest responded in Russian.

        “ _You won’t_ ,” Ernest said as he guided Jascha to the car. “Do you want the front, or the back?” He asked, switching back to English. 

        “Neither,” Jascha said miserably. 

        “God, just put him somewhere,” Victor said, exasperated. “It’s nearly three in the morning.” 

        “Shut up, Victor,” Ernest snapped. “Jascha, pick a seat,” he said gently. 

        “Can you ride in the back with me?” Jascha asked quietly. 

        “Victor is literally not allowed to drive,” Ernest said sadly. “Not that he’s ever had driving lessons to begin with…” he squeezed Jascha’s arm gently. “I have to drive.” 

        Jascha nodded. “Front, then,” he whispered. He let Ernest guide him into the seat, bending his neck carefully to avoid hitting his head. Ernest buckled his seatbelt and kissed him quickly on the cheek. Victor got in the back. 

        Jascha, normally, could handle car rides by squeezing either the edge of the seat or the emergency handle tightly. Ernest would usually be talking to him too, which helped take his mind off the pain. He’d also be able to see the road or look to Ernest when he got scared or the pain got to be too much. He couldn’t see now, nor could he squeeze anything through the casts. He bit his lip as Ernest started the car, commanding himself not to cry out for him to stop. 

        Jascha kept himself together as they drove out of the parking lot. It was slow, and easy, and he had a good sense of where they were. He felt the ache creep up his left leg and start in his right ankle. His wrists hurt, too. All he could think about was the stark white of his bone when it had snapped through his wrist. It was the first break he remembered seeing when he’d come-to after the crash. He hadn’t even felt the pain; he just saw the bone and the blood. Then he’d seen the twisted, metal wreck that his legs were trapped under. He’d wondered why he couldn’t feel them. Once his mind was cleared slightly from the shock and the tinnitus quieted in his ears, the agony started and--

        “Help!” Jascha cried out, as Ernest put on the breaks. The lurch of the car triggered the pain. “I can’t feel my legs-- I feel them too much--” He was yelling now, and he felt Ernest put a hand on his left knee. The pain disappeared from that leg and he gasped. The pain in the other leg and his wrists was excruciating. He could hear Victor shouting, and Ernest started the car moving again. Something about breathing. Or about why Jascha was freaking out. Jascha tried to reach for Ernest’s hand but couldn’t wrap his fingers around it, which made the pain and fear worse. He’d started crying, and the salt of the tears made his eyes feel like they were being filled with acid. 

        “I’m gonna pull over once we’re on the highway,” Ernest’s voice cut through the pain and the ringing in his ears. He didn’t move his hand from his leg. “You’re safe, Jascha. It’s okay.” 

        “Please, call an ambulance, you have to get me out of here,” Jascha said quickly. He switched quickly between Russian and English. “ _Dad, I’m sorry. I think I broke the car. I’m sorry_. I”m getting blood on the seats--” 

        “What’s the matter with him?” Victor screamed. “What the fuck is going on!?” 

        “Shut up, Victor!” Ernest yelled. He kept massaging Jascha’s knee and thigh. “Jascha, breathe. Deep breaths; everything is fine,” he said slowly. Jascha couldn’t breath. His chest hurt. He had cracked ribs, and couldn’t get a breath in. Any movement pulled at his hips and sent agony through his body. 

        He felt the car accelerate, and then drive for a few moments before Ernest pulled off to one side. His chest was heaving rapidly and he tried and failed to open the door, sobbing desperately in every language he knew. The pain in his eyes was unimaginable, yet it only made more tears come. He heard the door open and felt Ernest’s arms around him.

        “Shh,” Ernest whispered. Jascha panted for air, failing to get a good breath in. He leaned against Ernest’s shoulder. 

        “My legs--” He said breathlessly. 

        “Are there,” Ernest interrupted. “They’re fine, Jascha,” Ernest said as he ran his hands up and down Jascha’s thighs. With his touch, the searing agony of metal and crushed bone ebbed away. Jascha gasped as he drew his first deep breath. “Victor, can you please just stay in the car?” Ernest hissed. 

        “You remember it,” Victor said, with something like excitement in his voice. “You remember your death.” 

        “Please…” Jascha said miserably into Ernest’s coat. “Please, go away.” 

        “Victor!” Ernest said poisonously. 

        “How much do you remember?” Victor asked, stepping closer. “Just the accident, or the death itself? Do you remember what death felt--” Ernest let go of Jascha, and he heard him grip Victor’s coat. 

        “Get back in the car,” Ernest said menacingly. Jascha relaxed as he heard the car door close. Ernest’s hands returned to him, and Jascha tried his best to hold onto him, though the casts were bulky and awkward. “Jascha, are you okay?” Ernest asked sweetly. 

        Jascha nodded, pressing his face against Ernest’s neck. He matched Ernest’s breathing, drawing deep, shaky breaths. He felt Ernest’s hands leave his legs, moving up to his back and neck. He relaxed as Ernest pet his hair. 

        “We need to get you home,” Ernest whispered. “What can I do to help you?” 

        “How long do my eyes need to be bandaged?” Jascha said into Ernest’s neck. His face felt wet and uncomfortably slick. 

        “Until they stop bleeding,” Ernest smoothed back his hair. 

        “Bleeding? My eyes are bleeding?” Jascha’s voice raised several pitches, and he lurched away from Ernest’s shoulder. 

        “It’s okay,” Jascha let Ernest hold the sides of his face as he spoke. “It’s normal. Don’t worry.” Jascha nodded, and startled slightly when Ernest kissed him on the lips. “Is it okay if we start driving again?” 

        “Can you keep one hand on my leg?” Jascha asked quietly. He was still stuck on the bleeding eyes thing. It made him feel sick. “I...don’t feel good.” 

        “Does he want the pills?” Victor called from the back seat. “I have a valium, three xanax, and, like, a bunch of morphine.” 

        Jascha wished he could look at Ernest. He flinched every time touch changed, even when it was comforting. Ernest was stroking his hair, but even that was scary when his hands moved. 

        “Jascha, do you want to take some medicine?” Ernest asked gently. “It might help you feel better.” 

        “Are you sure it’s safe?” Jascha asked, leaning into Ernest’s touch. He just wanted to sleep and be held. And hopefully get the bandage off his eyes soon. 

        “I mean, the pills are fine on their own,” Ernest slid a hand down to his cheek, wiping a drop of what might have been a tear or a bit of blood from Jascha’s face. “It’ll be fine.” 

        “Will one of them get rid of the fear?” Jascha asked. 

        “A valium will help,” Ernest said. “Or xanax. Really any of them.” 

        “Morphine will help with pain! And get you high!” Victor added. 

        “Can I take a fear pill and a morphine?” Jascha asked. 

        “I mean, you _can_ ,” Victor said. “But it might throw you into acute respiratory distress or a coma. Maybe stop your heart.” 

        “Absolutely not,” Ernest said firmly. “Jascha, you can have one or the other.” 

        “I don’t know what they do,” Jascha said miserably. “Pick one for me.” 

        “Give me the bottle,” Ernest called to Victor. There was shuffling and the sound of pills rolling inside a bottle. “Okay, Jascha. I have a morphine pill, and you can use my water bottle. Open your mouth,” Jascha obliged, and felt a little pill slide under his tongue. “Here’s the water,” Ernest held the mouthpiece of his water bottle to Jascha’s lips, tilting it slowly. Jascha took a few sips. “Okay?” 

        “Mhm,” Jascha nodded. “How long does it take to work?”

        “Like, fifteen minutes,” Victor called from the back. “You haven’t had any food, so maybe sooner.” 

        Jascha nodded. “Okay. I think you can start driving again.” 

        “Okay,” Ernest said warmly. He quickly kissed Jascha on the lips, helping him back into the car. Once his seatbelt was on, he returned to the drivers side and started up the engine. 

        Jascha felt the ache in his legs for maybe ten minutes. It was sharp again at first, but Ernest kept one of his hands firmly placed on the top of his thigh, which helped keep him grounded. Jascha started to feel the pain ebb away, and it was replaced by a sleepy euphoria unlike anything else he’d ever experienced up to that point. It felt like his chest was light but his limbs were heavy, and every muscle in his body relaxed. It wasn’t unlike the feeling he had immediately following an orgasm. It had the same heaviness and comfort, as well as the overwhelming sleepiness. The difference was that he also felt drunk, and a bit out of it. Giddy, maybe. He felt overwhelmed by contentment and affection for Ernest.

        “Ernest,” he mumbled. “What does the pill do?”

        “Hm?” Jascha felt Ernest’s hand shift as he stroked Jascha’s knee with his fingertips. 

        “ _You’re perfect_ ,” Jascha said quietly. “ _I feel really weird. Where are we going?_ ”

        “Jascha,” Ernest said slowly. “I love you, but I have no idea what language you’re speaking. What’s up?”

        “ _It’s English_ ,” Jascha said languidly. In the dark behind his eyelids he saw sparks. “ _Ernest, have I told you before that I love you?_ ”

        “I think it’s Lithuanian. I heard your name, though,” Victor said from the back. His voice felt very far away. 

        “Jascha, buddy, I think you might be high,” Ernest said, giving his knee a light squeeze. Jascha flinched away as it tickled, laughing slightly. 

        “ _Stop!_ ” Jascha smiled. “ _That tickled._ ” 

        “Okay, he’s speaking Russian now,” Ernest said affectionately. “We’re almost home, dude.” 

        “How? We’ve only been driving for a minute. Maybe a day,” Jascha said weakly. He couldn’t remember why they were driving, or where they were going. “Where are we? Why can’t I see?” 

        “I changed your eyes,” Victor said flatly from the back. “And we’re going home. Also we’ve been driving for nearly twenty minutes.” He paused. “Hey, Ernest, can I have a morphine too?” 

        “No way,” Ernest said sharply. “Never. That is the worst idea you’ve ever had.” 

        “Really?” Victor said skeptically. 

        “Ernest, I think he brought me back for bad reasons,” Jascha said absently. “Did you know he picked out my dick?” 

        “Jascha--” Ernest started.

        “It was a hard decision, too,” Victor said cheerily. “I tried to ask Clerv- Henry, for help, and he refused to give me his feedback.” 

        “I don’t--” Ernest said quickly. He was cut off.

        “It was kind of a gamble, too,” Victor just kept going. “It’s pretty similar to Jascha’s original, though it was hard to tell because, well. The car kind of literally destroyed-”

        “Victor!” Ernest yelled. Jascha jumped. “I’m sorry, Jascha,” Ernest said quickly. “Please, for the love of god, stop talking about Jascha’s dick. If he weren’t high as fuck right now he’d probably have a heart attack.” 

        “ _I’m okay_ ,” Jascha said quietly. 

        “Jascha, I don’t speak Lithuanian.” Ernest sighed. “Please speak English. Or very slow Russian.” 

        “I want to call my mom,” Jascha said dreamily. “I want to talk to my mom.”  
“You can call her once you’re a little better,” Ernest said gently. 

        “I want to call her now,” Jascha said, almost firmly. “And my dad. My dad is probably mad at me for dying. And for ruining his car,” Jascha zoned out. “ _I have to tell them I’m gay. I have to tell them I’m dead and I’m gay and Victor touched all my_ -”

        “Jascha, you’re speaking Lithuanian again,” Ernest sounded exhausted. 

        “I think we should get him hooked on opiods,” Victor said from the back. “He’s much cooler when he’s high, even if we can’t understand--”

        “Victor! We are not getting Jascha addicted to drugs!” Ernest hissed. “Oh, thank god. We’re home.” The car stopped. 

        “Ernest!” Jascha said as he moved his hand off his leg. “Where are you going?”  
“I’m coming to help you get out of the car,” Ernest said. Jascha heard a car door close, and then his car door open. Ernest reached in and unbuckled his seatbelt. 

        “Ernest,” Jascha whispered as he climbed out of the car. “I love you so, so much. You’re the most beautiful, perfect person ever to live, and I really want to go to bed and cuddle with you--”

        “Jascha, can you please switch _back_ to Lithuanian?” Victor said with disgust. “This is literally killing me to overhear. I will die.”

        Jascha frowned. “But it’s true,” he said quietly. 

        “He’s just jealous,” Ernest said lightly. Jascha nodded. 

        “Hey!” Victor yelled. 

        “It’s okay, Victor,” Jascha said as Ernest helped him get up the stairs to the house. “If you were nice, and had freckles, and curly hair, and somehow always smelled like cinnamon or cookies, maybe you would be perfect too,” Jascha stopped walking and hugged Ernest. “I love you,” He said into Ernest’s hair. 

        “Buddy, I love you too, but you need to go to bed,” Ernest laughed awkwardly, patting him on the back. “You’re going to be so embarrassed when we tell you all the stuff you’re saying…” Jascha shook his head, pulling away. He clumsily placed a blind kiss on Ernest’s cheek. He was trying to kiss him on the lips, but he couldn’t see anything. 

        “Ernest?” Jascha turned as he heard Henry’s voice. “Oh my god. Oh my god, what happened to Jascha? Are you okay?” 

        “Victor put in new eyes and fixed my hands,” Jascha said. “Henry, did you hear about how great Ernest is--”  
“Okay, shut up! Time for drugged up Jaschas to go to bed!” Victor said bitterly. 

        “I want to say hi to Henry,” Jascha said sadly. 

        “Is he okay?” Henry asked. Jascha would have been worried at how scared Henry sounded, but he was pretty sure he was immune to anxiety at the moment. 

        “We gave him a dose of morphine,” Ernest said gently. “He’s okay. Just...loopy.” 

        “ _Ernest helped with the surgery_ ,” Jascha said happily. He wrapped his arms awkwardly around Ernest, unable to bend any of his joints save for the elbow and his shoulders. “ _I love him. He protected me from Victor and didn’t let him take out my organs._ ” 

        “Is he…” Henry started.

        “Speaking Lithuanian? Yes. Show’s over. Put him to bed before I get second thoughts about bringing him back to life,” Victor said venomously. 

        “Victor…” Ernest took on a warning tone. He guided Jascha into the house. 

        “Holy fuck!” Jascha jumped as Lizzie screamed at him. “Dad!” 

        “Lizzie--” Victor started. 

        “Did you do this?!” She asked. “Alphonse!”

        Jascha heard footsteps running. He balked and tried to hide behind Ernest, reaching for his bandage so he could see everyone. Ernest caught his arm and gently returned it to his side. 

        “What’s wrong? Oh, Jascha…” He flinched as Alphonse touched his shoulder. “What on earth happened? Where have all of you been? Victor, did you do this?” 

        “I--” Victor started.

        “Everyone, settle down!” Ernest raised his voice. “Jascha asked Victor to...fix some things. He’s going to be fine. Now can you all just leave us alone so we can go to bed?” 

        Everyone was silent. Jascha leaned against Ernest, growing fatigued from the meds and the stress of everyone fussing over him. 

        “Okay,” Alphonse finally said. “Victor, Ernest, I want to talk to you about this in the morning. Jascha, are you okay?” 

        “ _They gave me a pill and now I feel fantastic_ ,” Jascha said sleepily. 

        “What language is that?” Alphonse asked quietly.

        “Lithuanian.” Victor and Ernest said in unison. 

        “I’m gonna take him upstairs to bed,” Ernest said with a sigh. “Everyone, please just... don’t talk to me about this until I’ve had at least sixteen hours of sleep. Please?” 

        Jascha assumed everyone nodded because they started the arduous journey up two flights of stairs. Once they were a little ways away, he heard muttering from downstairs. But he was too high and too far to make out the words. 

        Ernest sat him on the bed, locking up the door. Jascha started to try to pick at the bandage again only to have Ernest hurry back and stop him. “Jascha, I’m gonna help you change into pajamas, okay?” Ernest sounded exhausted. Jascha felt bad. He wanted to comfort him, but he couldn’t find the words nor the correct language. He nodded, and let Ernest help him out of his t-shirt and sweatpants. Ernest got him into a new, softer t-shirt, and some soft pajama bottoms. 

        “ _Ernest_ ,” Jascha said as he lay down. “ _I love you_ ,” he whispered, feeling Ernest climb under the covers next to him. They maneuvered so that Jascha was on his side, Ernest holding him tightly against his chest. Jascha smiled as he felt Ernest kiss the back of his neck. 

        “Jascha, I love you so much and you’re unbelievably cute when you’re high, but it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t speak Lithuanian,” Ernest said against his neck. 

        “I was speaking English,” Jascha said with a frown. Ernest laughed and kissed him again.

        “You are now,” he said gently. “You’ve been switching between Lithuanian, Russian, and English for the entire time. I only know, like, a third of what you said.” 

        “You speak Russian,” Jascha said defensively. “You should know two thirds.”

        “I speak Russian at a kindergarten level,” Jascha felt Ernest smile against his skin. “And you don’t exactly speak slowly. And your speech is slurred.”

        “ _It is not_ ,” Jascha frowned. “ _I feel fine_.”

        “Lithuanian again,” Ernest gave him a squeeze. “You need to sleep. You’ve had a hard day.” 

        “ _You’ve_ had a hard day,” Jascha said hazily. Sleep was already finding him. 

        “I have,” Ernest conceded. “Let’s talk again in the morning,” Ernest laughed to himself. “Maybe you can list more things you like about me. It’ll drive Victor nuts,” he whispered. Jascha grinned sleepily. 

        “Did you like that?” He asked contentedly. He was answered by another kiss. 

        “Yes,” Ernest said quietly. 

        “I can keep listing things,” Jascha offered, “I like your--”

        “Tomorrow, bud. You can list things tomorrow.” Ernest said with a tired laugh. “I’m super beat. Besides, we can use it to torture Victor.” 

        “Mhm,” Jascha nodded. “He’s not as pretty as you,” he said absently. “And he smells like rubbing alcohol. And plastic. You’re great because--” 

        “Shh,” Ernest stroked his arm. “We can talk about how great I am tomorrow, okay?”

        “Okay,” Jascha wished he could pick up Ernest’s hand and kiss it. “I love you.”

        “I love you too,” Ernest whispered. 

        “Goodnight, Ernest.” Jascha said softly. 

        “G’night, Jascha.” Jascha curled up happily and slipped into dreamless morphine sleep.

 


	38. Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry tells the time. Victor talks about boys. Jascha gets high off morphine. Ernest gets an apology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! As always, thanks for reading! Sorry about the mistake in the posting schedule on Friday. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Vomiting, medical gore, references to sexual abuse, references to past sibling abuse.

        Henry spent the next fifteen minutes vomiting in the downstairs bathroom. Seeing Jascha cry blood and speak in tongues was really not how he wanted to be disturbed at nearly four in the morning. Thankfully, everyone was much too preoccupied with that than his disappearance. He flinched as the cold porcelain bit into the tender skin of his wrists.  

        It wasn’t that bad. Really, it wasn’t. Jascha had asked Victor to do it and Victor delivered and Ernest was there and it was fine. It was totally fine. He wretched again, but nothing came out. When was the last time he had eaten? It seemed like ages ago, but it was really a day, maybe a day and a half. He ate at William’s birthday. It wasn’t that long ago. He wiped sticky, yellow bile from his chin and tried to stand up.

        The world spun. His sleep-addled brain couldn’t keep up with the changing colors or patterns so he braced himself against the countertop. He locked eyes with himself in the mirror. What he saw was bad. His yellow eyes looked like a dog’s and the scar that stretched across his nose and cheek was still pink and red. Like a dog, he should be put out on the street. What else was he good for except begging and stealing people’s attention?

        Henry sank back down to his knees. He wanted to bash his forehead against the cabinets but then blood would seep into the wood grain and it would be really difficult for Alphonse to clean. His arm ached as it was stretched above his head. His skin was still ruined and he never did get it stitched backup. There would be scars forever and ever.

        How long had it been since the last time he had water? Too long, probably. Why should he take care of himself if everyone else was suffering too?  Maybe if he just never drank again he could waste away and no one would even notice. That would be best; to die and never worry anyone. It could have been an accident.

        What time was it? Eventually someone would need him to do something and then he’d have a purpose again and he wouldn’t have to die. He couldn’t remember. Oh, that was bad. His one reliable defense mechanism, gone. He tried to look at his watch, or he would have if he remembered where it went. It was in there somewhere. He could feel the memory clawing at the back of his skull, desperate to tear its way through his bone.

        There wasn’t a clock in the bathroom. Who doesn’t have a clock in the bathroom? Who doesn’t have a clock in every room? It was the one thing that could keep them safe. There was a clock in Victor’s room, he knew, but he couldn’t go in there. There had to be a clock in the kitchen. A real clock, not one of the ones that was on the stove or the microwave that would cut out if they lost power. He needed a clock he could trust. He wanted his watch, but that wasn’t really an option now, was it?

        Henry cursed under his breath and went to the kitchen and there were people there, like actual, real-life people doing normal things. He found the analogue clock with the yellow rim that always hung above the entry to the living room. It was still there and as far as he could tell, still kept time. 7:36 AM.

        “Four hours?” Henry asked to no one. “I was in the bathroom for four hours?” Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck stuck up. He was being watched.

        “Henry?” The smallest voice asked behind him. “Are you okay?”

        “No!” He shrieked and pressed himself into the doorframe. “Please don’t ask me to hurt you! Please!”

        “Victor, we need to go--” Alphonse tried to hustle his oldest son out the door.

        “But Dad--”

        “Now.” Alphonse sounded so tired.

        Left alone, Henry pressed his back to the fridge and stared at the clock. If he looked away, time would melt into acrylic paint swirls and he would lose himself. He stared at the clock for a long, long time.

        Perhaps people came into the room and perhaps they tried to speak to him, but it didn't really register. Maybe, he even spoke back? He couldn’t tell. There are only so many people who would try.

        “Okay,” Ernest picked Henry up the way a parent picked up a toddler. “I need you to watch Jascha.”

        “What?” Henry blinked and somehow found the strength to settle himself on his feet.

        “I have to make a call and Lizzie and Justine are out, so you’re on Jascha babysitting duty,” Ernest explained.

        “What does that mean?” Despite the situation, everything was starting to feel a little bit more normal.

        “It means that Jascha is high off of morphine and only speaks English a third of the time.” Ernest looked exhausted.

        “What does he speak? Is he still crying blood?” Henry asked.

        “He was never really crying it...Lithuanian and Russian. I’ve got to go. I put him in the living room. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

        Jascha was fucked up beyond all belief. He snuggled into the corner of the couch and babbled to himself in Lithuanian.

        “ I like Ernest’s eyes. I like Ernest’s hair. I like the freckles on his face,”  he muttered contentedly. “ I love Ernest so much. He’s so beautiful and perfect and he’s my boyfriend. My boyfriend.”  He stretched out the vowels in each word.

        It had been a long time since Henry needed to understand Lithuanian and an even longer time since he needed to speak it. What could he say, he was a fucking language nerd.

        “ _Hi Jascha_ ,”  he tried to say. “ _I’m gonna watch you for a bit, yes?_ ”

        Jascha turned towards his voice before cocking his head, just like Ernest would. “You speak Lithuanian?” He asked in English.

        “Well, it’s been a long time and I’d prefer not to.” Henry explained. He was beginning to understand why Ernest looked so dead.

        “ ты знаешь все мои секреты ,”  Jascha said in Russian.

        “I’m sorry, bud, I don’t have that one,” Henry sighed and finally sat down.

        “ What sort of person knows Lithuanian but doesn’t know Russian?”  Jascha asked.

        “ The type with...uh,  extremely specialized interests  in high school.”  Henry put his head on Jascha’s shoulder. He felt dirty. He was the one who was supposed to be comforting Jascha, not the other way around. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

        “Why are you sorry? You haven’t done anything wrong and Ernest loves you, so you must be perfect.” Back to English.

        “I’ve been a bad friend.” Henry smelled cinnamon and cedar wood in Jascha’s clothes. He tried to wrap his arms around Henry’s shoulders but he didn’t seem to have complete control of his gross muscle movements. That, and his wrists were braced.

        “ _You’re not bad. You help Ernest and you love your friends. You helped me when Victor was being really mean. Am I your friend?_ ”  Back to Lithuanian.

        “ _You are._ ”

        “Then you are a good friend and a good person. Anyone would be lucky to have a friend like you.”

        “ Thanks, bud.”

        “I can tell you don’t really feel better,” Jascha switched to English and moved his eyebrows underneath the bandages, skewing them slightly.

        Henry sighed and righted them again. “Not really.”

        “ Зачем? ”  Russian, but Henry was pretty sure he knew what it meant.

        “I take Alphonse’s time and energy away from his real kids. I can’t protect you or Ernest from the awful things Victor says and does to you. I’ve lost him and he thinks I’m a...he thinks…” Henry really had never been able to finish that sentence. “How could he think? I thought he loved me.”

        “He does love you.” Jascha tried to make eye contact. “Ernest says he’s just sick. But sick people can get better.” He waved around his braced wrists and Henry was worried he might hurt himself. “Broken bones heal and Victor helped me.”

        “Did he do a good job?” He asked.

_“Ernest says he did and nothing hurts so everything is wonderful. One day he’ll feel better too.”_   Lithuanian.

        “ _Thanks, Jascha, that helps a lot_.”  Henry settled himself on Jascha’s shoulder, careful to not mess up his arm.

“You make Ernest really happy and you make me really happy too.”  Jascha smiled and pressed his cheek into Henry's hair.

“I’m glad I at least make the two of you happy.”

        “Have you ever seen Ernest’s eyes?” Jascha asked. “Or his freckles?”

        Henry smiled into his sleeve. “I have, Jascha.”

        “Isn’t he cute?” He stretched out the last word for an eternity.

        “He is very cute, Jascha.” It was cute and refreshing to see Jascha so happy, even if it was a morphine-induced haze.

        “ _See,_ ”  Jascha sang “ _he is just the sweetest thing in the entire world. I want him to kiss me. Where is he?_ ”  Lithuanian.

        “ He’s making a call right now, he’ll be back soon.”

        “ He’s so good at kissing and—“  he stumbled for the words. “ Other things.”

        “Jascha, have you had sex with Ernest?” Henry broke into English. He felt bad as soon as he asked it. Sober Jascha would never have answered.

        “I have,” he smiled. “And it made me really happy. I think it made Ernest happy, too.”

        “I’m sure it made Ernest happy,” Henry reassured him.

        “He makes really pretty sounds,” Jascha said and Henry blushed.

        “Uh, that’s great?” Henry was suddenly dramatically out of his depth.

        “ I really want to suck his—“

        “Okay, buddy, I’m sorry I brought it up.”  Henry didn’t think it was possible for him to blush any deeper.

        “Он идеален. Все что он делает идеально. ”  Jascha put his cheek on the top Henry’s head. “Ты идеальный . Я рад, что знаю тебя.”

        “I’m sorry, bud. I don’t speak Russian.”

 

* * *

 

        It was a lot. That was always the issue with returning to his lab. As soon as Victor entered the sacred space that was his personal cadaver cabinet, it was like the rest of the world ceased to be, collapsing beneath the order and perfect harmony. Neat stitches and slick hands and things that made so much sense they could be run on autopilot. The presence of Ernest and Jascha, the disgusting young lovers or boyfriends or whatever they were calling their over-affectionate relationship, had, of course, complicated the natural simplicity of the world. But Victor still felt it.

        Then came the car and drugged up Jascha and the relization of ‘holy shit, he remembers his fucking death’ and the absolute wrongness of seeing all…that in action. Ernest comforting Jascha through a break in reality. Jascha  having  a break in reality. It was unexpected to say the least. Victor hadn’t anticipated the lasting trauma such an event would have on the experiment’s psyche, but he should have. He desperately wanted to test for the triggers. Was the reaction only present in cars or was it created by any moving vehicles? Was it setting dependent? What other strong memories could play into it? Would Jascha’s response be better or worse if he was wearing a suit? He obviously couldn’t test any of those variables considering one, Ernest would kill him, two, Jascha was so heavily drugged he might as well be vacationing on the moon, and three, Lizzie would  actually  kill him. But it was still intriguing. Terrifying, honestly, as well. But intriguing nonetheless.

         It was better to focus on Jascha’s mental health than other things. Like the absolute consistency of horror in Henry’s eyes or the way he couldn’t even seem to be in the same room as Victor without breaking down.  Don’t ask me to hurt you. I don’t want to kill you.

Fuck.

        Like, actually, holy fuck. This was bad. This was like truly, legitimately bad and Victor’s meter for badness was extraordinarily high. And, cherry on the ice cream, he couldn’t do anything about Henry because, as said, the other man couldn’t even look at him without screaming. God, sometimes he wished he could just crack Henry’s head open and root around inside, connect the different neurons, rearrange the memories, give him a second chance to live a life without Victor in it. That, however, would involve a lobotomy and Victor had been banned from ever reading about how to perform those.

        Besides, he knew that nothing he could do with science would make things okay again.

        In fact, there was nothing he could do, period. With Henry in fear of his or, apparently, Victor’s life, his father overwhelmed by the knowledge that his sons were now using their collective medical degrees to perform illegal surgeries in the dead of night, and Jascha stumbling around the house doing his damndest to describe the exact appearance of Ernest’s dick to anyone who would listen, there was nowhere in the house safe for Victor anymore.

        “Why are you in the bed of my truck?” A voice by Victor’s elbow asked.

        “Hiding from everyone. Mostly Jascha.” Victor answered simply.

        Justine looked at him, indifference clear on every feature. “Okay, but do you need to do it in my truck?” She asked. “You’re going to ruin the paint job with your greasy hair.”

        Victor glared at her and settled farther back into the hard metal. “I can’t believe I ever thought you were the nice lesbian.”

        A small smirk graced Justine’s lips. “That’s only because you were comparing me to your sister.” She reached up and tapped Victor’s foot. “Move.”

        “Make me.”

        Without hesitation, Justine clambered into the truck.

        “Shit.” Victor hissed as he skidded back in the bed only to have Justine catch him around the ankles. Before Victor could even fathom a proper get away, he was hefted up and over one shoulder. He gave a few half hearted kicks as Justine hoisted him out of the truck bed. “Why do you insist on insulting my manhood?” Victor asked dejectedly. “Haven’t I been punished enough today?”

        “No.” Justine answered. “Besides, it’s not like you have much manhood to insult.”

        “Rude.”

        Justine set him on his feet once more, a solid few feet away from her truck’s precious paint. “You’re the one who refuses to eat human food or exercise.”

        “I get more than enough exercise.” Victor said.

        “I’ve seen you go to the gym a sum total of once.” Justine crossed her arms and leaned back against the truck. “And that was to steal some of their towels.”

        “I get exercise running away from my problems and deadlifting my sins.”

        Justine offered no visible reaction beyond a raised eyebrow. “Dramatic.”

        “I live a hard life.”

        Both glanced to the viable mansion looming over the shaded driveway. “Yeah.” Justine deadpanned. “Sure you do.” As Victor made a pathetic attempt to match Justine’s cool and collected pose, the other lit a cigarette.

        Victor perked up at once. “Can I have one?”

        “Absolutely not.”

        Victor pouted for a moment before drawing himself back to his feet. “Well then. I guess I’ll just go back inside and tell Elizabeth that you don’t love me.”

        Justine snorted. “And risk Jascha yelling at you more about how Ernest has,” she made a show of putting on a Russian accent, “‘the sweetest little chipmunk cheeks.’”

        Victor shuttered. “Okay,” he plodded back to his place pressed between Justine and Ernests’ cars, “you’re right. This is the vastly superior option.”

        Justine hummed. She sized Victor up from the corner of her eye as she took a drag of the cigarette.

        “Here.” She held out the lit cigarette. “You can have one minute with it as long as you don’t tell your sister.”

        Victor grinned and took it eagerly. He drew a deep breath, immediately choking as the ash clogged his airways and burned the inside of his lung. Above the din of his coughing, he just barely could hear Justine laughing as he struggled to regain the ability to exist.

        “You did that on purpose!” He rasped, leaning back against the car for support.

        “Nah.” Justine smiled. “I just forgot how much of a baby you are.”

        Victor glared at her through watering eyes and, after taking a moment to assess how much he valued his pride over his health, sat on the concrete drive. To his surprise, Justine stepped forward and sat across from him.

        He squirmed uncomfortably as she slipped another cigarette from her belt to replace the one he’d dropped. “I don’t really…”

        “We don’t need to talk about things.” She cut him off. “I’m kinda tired of the constant crisis situation too, to be honest. And I’m dating Elizabeth so you know my tolerance is pretty high.”

        He nodded loosely and allowed himself to relax into a less defensive pose. It was way too cold to be sitting outside, with light frostings of snow already covering the grass and a sky promising more, but it was completely silent outside and that was what counted. As the minutes ticked by, Victor devoted his attention to tracing the shape of Justine’s thin smoke trails, making shapes of each. A hand. A cat. A pair of lungs.

        “You know, it’s strange.” Victor broke the quiet once the worries in his head became too loud to filter out. “I don’t think I’ve ever talked to you without Liz around.”

        “We did once.” Justine said. “When I first told you and Henry that Elizabeth and I were dating. You insisted on speaking to me privately so you could describe in vivid detail all the ways you knew how to hide a body.”

        “Right.” Victor eyed her. “Was it an effective threat?”

        Justine shrugged. “Would have been if you weren’t nine weeks off Ingolstadt. You kinda looked like a drowned weasel at that point.”

        Victor smirked and leaned forward on his hands. “I’ll have you know I still look like a drowned weasel. It’s my signature.”

        “Explains why Ernest is the pretty one.”

        “Yeah…” Victor said wistfully. Despite his attempts to keep the atmosphere light, he could already feel the weight of genuine discomfort coursing through his chest. “He is the pretty one, isn’t he? And now that he’s helped me with real surgery, I can’t even claim he’s not smart. So where does that leave me?”

        “The unpredictable one?”

        “That’s Liz.”

        “Hm. Homicidal one.”

        “That’s also Liz.”

        Justine frowned and looked him over. “Well. I’d say the gay one but that includes more siblings than not at this point.” She paused, already sharp eyes narrowing further. “How’s that going by the way?”

        “Being gay?” Victor asked in confusion.

        “Yup.”

        “I mean,” Victor shifted in place, seriously considering whether it might be better to go find Jascha and listen to him blabber about Ernest’s amazing cuddling skills, “not great. Obviously. With Henr-”

        “I wasn’t talking about Henry, I was talking about you.” Now it was Justine’s turn to move forward, holding Victor in place with a stern look. “How are you doing with things?”

        “I’m fine.”

        “Are you sure?”

        “Yeah. It’s just, like,” Victor made a series of nonsensical hand motions, “right?”

        Justine offered him a truly unimpressed stare. “Yeah. That covers it.”

        “It does.” Victor said defensively. “It’s fine, I am, Henry hates me, end of the story. Besides, we’ve already had this talk.”

        Justine sighed and ground the butt of her cigarette against the drive. “No,  I  had this talk. You just sat and nodded and occasionally said ‘yeah’ when I asked you if you thought guys were hot. Then you guilted Elizabeth into taking you out for waffles and refused to acknowledge anything happened.”

        “Well…” Victor trailed off, internally searching his catalogue of ‘reasonable excuses to exit a conversation.’ Unfortunately, the only one which seemed to hold water in this particular case was the classic ‘pretend to pass out like a swooning Victorian mistress who just heard her husband mysteriously died at sea’ and Victor was ninety percent sure Justine would just slap him till he woke up again. “I’ve talked to you about Henry.”

        “You’ve talked to Elizabeth about Henry. Reluctantly and with a lot of ‘no homos’ thrown in after every sentence.”

        Victor frowned and looked down. “It wasn’t homo then.” He muttered.

        “Victor, I need you to know that I had you pinned down as bi ten seconds into meeting you. And I had yours and Henry’s relationship figured out two seconds into meeting  him . You have never been slick. It just so happened that you’re also dumb as a bag of rocks-”

        “-Hey!-”

        “-and hopelessly repressed.” Justine punctuated her sentence with a sharp rap of Victor’s skull.

        He rubbed the spot and glowered at her. “Well, I’ve gotten past that.”

        “To an extent.” Justine said. “Let’s talk about boys.”

        Victor was getting whiplash from this conversation. “Beg pardon?”

        “Tell me about your boys.”

        “I don’t-” Victor spluttered. He was about five seconds away from pulling a fainting Victorian. “I don’t have-”

        “Victor.” Justine’s voice was becoming weirdly parental now and Victor realized, with a crushing spike of embarrassment, that she was using her patented pre-K teaching voice. “Tell me about your boys.”

        “You know Henry.” Victor said quickly. “You know everything about him so I don’t have to tell you anything so I’m going to go check Jascha’s bandages now and-” Victor leapt to his feet, but was yanked back by the tail of his coat.

        “Was Henry the first?” Justine asked, casual as could be.

        Victor was going to die. “Yes.”

        “Did you have any more crushes on guys after him?”

        “Yes.” He glared through his mild panic, daring her to try and ask more.

        She read his expression with a tilt of the head. “What’s your ideal guy like?”

        Victor swallowed hard. “Physically? Emotionally?”

        “Let’s go with physically. And you can’t say Henry. That’s cheating.” Justine relaxed further back against the wheels of her truck. When Victor didn’t say anything, she smiled. “I can start. My ideal girl is definitely blond, with long, wavy hair. I’ve always had a thing for wavy hair. I like girls with a bit of a curve to them. Nice ass is a must.”

        “Gross.” Victor mumbled.

        “And, of course, expressive faces. I like girls who can show me when they’re mad.”

        “That’s just Liz. This is all just Elizabeth.” Victor said flatly.

        Justine’s smile grew to a grin. “I have to compliment her twice every half hour or she’ll snipe me from the roof. Now,” Justine waved a hand to Victor, “tell me about what you like in a man.”

        “Uh.” Victor looked to his hands, unable to meet Justine’s eyes as he tried desperately to think if he’d ever met a man before. “Tall. Muscular but, like, in a lean, toned way. Not protein shake muscular. I like goofy smiles. Dark hair with light eyes.”

        “Cool.” Justine nodded her approval. “And because I’m taking pity on you I won’t mention that you just described Jascha to a T.”

        “Thanks.” Victor said sarcastically.

        “What about sex?”

        Victor blanched. “Justine, I swear I will impale myself on your truck’s antenna-”

        “Have you had sex with guys?” Justine pushed. Victor briefly decided to follow through on the sucide threat before his mind caught up with the slight change in the air. Justine had relaxed. Her eyes were no longer boring and intense. In other words, she was giving him an out if he wanted one.

        Victor gulped down the thick muck blocking his airway. “Yeah. With two guys.”

        “Two?” Justine prompted lightly.

        “Yup.”

        “Nice. Doing what?”

        “Basics.” Victor hesitated. “I’ve jerked someone off. Been jerked off. Sucked off. You know.”

        “I know.” Justine confirmed. “Anal?”

        “Didn’t like it.” Victor said quickly, fighting to kill the squirming in his stomach commanding him to puke immediately and everywhere.

        “Not everyone does.” Justine said without judgement. “You might prefer doing it rather than having it done to you. Or you might not like it at all. It’s all experimentation and knowing yourself and your limits.”

        “Yup.” Victor shot Justine a sideways look. She was still completely at ease with the situation, calm in ways Victor was sure he’d never been in his entire life. Justine was someone who had her life figured out. And she was dating Elizabeth on top of it, which was, in and of itself, a godlike feat. “Justine?”

        “Yes?”

        “Is anal supposed to, like, I don’t know. Hurt?”

        Justine’s expression remained stoic. “Not if the other person is doing it right. Using lube and prepping properly.”

        “Okay.” Victor looked back to his lap. “Cool. That’s what, uh. That’s what I thought.” All of sudden, Victor felt much calmer. More in control of the situation. Then the moment passed and the consumptive desire to expel his large intestine down the bathroom sink returned in a rush. “I’m going to go inside now.” He stood, heart pounding too loudly in his ears.

        “Okay.” Justine patted his leg with what Victor hoped but couldn’t be sure was affection. “Did you want me to come with you? We don’t have to talk boys anymore if you’re done.”

        Victor paused and searched her face. She didn’t look away. The swell in his stomach settled to a dull pulse. “Yeah.” He finally said. “I’d like you to come. And we can still talk boys. Or girls. Whatever.”

        “Cool.” Justine pulled herself to her feet. “Give me five minutes to give Elizabeth her hourly douse of attention and I’ll join you in the study.”

        “Great.” Victor said. He conjured a smile as Justine patted his shoulder. “See you in a few.”

        He followed Justine into the foyer and watched her disappear into the kitchen. He surveyed the space then turned his attention inward. Receding panic, no real desire to run, no itchy skin. He felt fine. That was abnormal. Probably best not to look a gift horse in the mouth on this one though. He already felt so bad about Henry anyways.

        Victor turned to the stairs and made his way to the office leisurely.  

 

* * *

 

        “Hey,” Jascha stirred as he heard the familiar sound of Ernest’s voice. He was laying in someone’s lap, and was immediately met by a crushing pain in both his hands, a murderous headache, and a mild twinge behind both eyes.

        “Ernest?” Jascha tried to sit up. That was a bad idea. Everything was agony. “Oh, god…”

        “You’re awake,” Henry? Why was Henry there? “I was getting worried.”

        “Was I asleep?” Jascha asked. He jumped as he felt someone touch his shoulders.

        “Dude, chill. It’s me,” Ernest said gently.

        “You were out cold for, like, six hours,” Henry said with a slight smile in his voice. “You talked my ear off for about half an hour and then collapsed.”

        “Wait,” Jascha couldn’t get his brain to work. “If Ernest is there, whose lap…?”

        “Mine,” Henry said lightly.

        “I’m so sorry,” Jascha sat fully upright. “Ugh,” he lowered his head. The movement sent it spinning and pounding. “Ernest, what time is it?”

        “Uh,” Ernest paused. “Like, maybe five? I checked on you a couple hours ago but we couldn’t get you to wake up, so I went out for a bit.”

        “What? Why couldn’t I wake up?” Jascha said anxiously. He didn’t like that he couldn’t remember anything from the entire day. He couldn’t even remember how he got downstairs.

        “Buddy, I gave you a pretty big dose of morphine this morning,” Jascha felt Ernest’s hand on the back of his neck. He leaned his head against his arm, hungry for his touch. Six hours was probably about the longest they’d been apart since the frat.

        “Can I have more?” Jascha asked. The pain in his wrists was awful. “My head hurts, and my wrists.”

        “Uh...That’s a hard no,” Ernest tapped his legs, and Jascha moved over so he could sit.

        “But-”

        “No,” Ernest laughed. “You can have a little more before bed. And then a tiny bit tomorrow. After that, you’re on Tylenol and Ibuprofen.”

        “But-” 

        “I love you too much to let you get an opiod addiction,” Ernest kissed him on the cheek. “Let me change your bandages, okay?”

        “Henry, is that okay?” Jascha asked, turning to face Henry even though he couldn’t see him. “I don’t know how bad they are.”

        “I’m okay,” Henry said softly. Jascha nodded, and faced back towards Ernest. He felt his deft fingers unwrap the bandages, and he was startled by the light. He kept his eyes closed.

        “Can I see?” Jascha asked.

        “I don’t know, can you?” Ernest asked lightly. Jascha tentatively opened his eyes, resisting the urge to rub at them. Sure enough, though blurry for a while, he saw Ernest.

        “Ernest,” he said quietly, reaching out and touching Ernest’s face gently. Something, love maybe, welled in his chest and warmed him. Ernest looked somehow better than he’d remembered, save for the slight bags under his eyes.

        “Can you see me?” Ernest asked with a strange smile. Jascha nodded.

        “What’s wrong?” Jascha asked, fear rising in him. “Do you not like the eyes?” Fear evolves quickly to panic, it turned out, especially when coming off a morphine high. He started to breathe a little too fast. “You liked the blue better. I made a mistake. I’m sorry-”

        “Shh,” Ernest placed his hands on either side of Jascha’s face. “The hazel is beautiful. I was making a weird face because of how bloodshot your eyes are from the surgery.”

        “Oh,” Jascha said with a heavy breath. “Okay.”

        “You good?” Ernest asked with a slight smile.

        “Mhm,” Jascha nodded, fear ebbing away. He rested his forehead against Ernest’s, closing his eyes. Ernest must have showered recently, since he smelled especially strongly of cedarwood. It helped Jascha’s breathing level out. “Did you know Henry speaks Lithuanian?” Jascha said quietly, now feeling high on the comforting smell of Ernest’s hair instead of the drugs.

        “I did not,” Ernest said with a smile. He pulled away, and Jascha frowned in protest. Ernest looked around him, to Henry. “Did he say anything embarrassing?” Jascha turned as Ernest laughed. Henry was blushing.

        “Did I?” Jascha asked, his own cheeks flushing pink.

        “You...may have,” Henry conceded. Ernest grinned.

        “Spill,” Ernest said gleefully, resting his chin on Jascha’s shoulder. Henry looked between him and Jascha, obviously caught between exposing Jascha to his own words and entertaining Ernest. His gaze settled on Jascha.

        “Do you...want it to be a secret?” Henry asked timidly.

        “How bad was it?” Jascha asked. His insides were squirming, but that could just be withdrawal.

        “It was a little bad,” Henry said with an apologetic smile. This just made Ernest smile more. Jascha blushed deeper and looked away.

        “What was it about?” Jascha forced himself to speak.

        “Um,” Henry balked. “It was mostly about Ernest, actually.” Jascha felt Ernest shift and look at him. Jascha closed his eyes, collecting himself before looking back at him. He was smirking like a cat.

        “What did he say about me?” Ernest asked, smirk never fading. His eyes, however, were filled as ever with sweet, melted warmth.

        “Uh,” Jascha glanced to Henry, who looked like he wanted to laugh. Or maybe die. Possibly both. “Mostly, like. You know,” Henry was the brightest shade of pink Jascha had ever seen him be. He looked at him, amber eyes filled with apology. “You might have been a little bit, uh. Out of it. And a little, you know. Horny.”

        Ernest broke into a fit of laughter, collapsing against his shoulder.

        “What?!” It was Jascha’s turn to become scarlet. “And I talked about it?!” He wanted to disappear. “What did I say? I wouldn’t have. I can’t have said anything-”

        “I don’t think you want to know,” Henry said sympathetically.

        “I want to know,” Ernest managed between laughs. He smiled as he recovered, looking up at Jascha. “I wish I spoke Lithuanian. Was that what you were saying last night, too?”

        “My memory checks out as of about five minutes ago,” Jascha said anxiously. “I’m sorry, Henry. I--Normally I’d never--I don’t even talk to Ernest about that…”

        “Dude, it’s okay,” Ernest cupped his face again, beaming at him. “I wish morphine weren’t so dangerous. You’re so funny when you’re high.”

        “I wish it weren’t dangerous so I wouldn’t have to remember,” Jascha mumbled, still blushing. He relaxed as Ernest let him rest his forehead against his again. “I’m tired.”

        “I’m not surprised. You, like, definitely still have some drugs in your system,” Ernest said gently, stroking his hair. “Let me check your eyes and re-bandage them, and then you can go to bed upstairs.”

        Jascha sat up, trying his best not to flinch as Ernest cleaned his eyes with the special, weirdly-blue solution Victor gave him. It didn’t hurt, but it made his eyes tingle. He felt a little better once fresh gauze were wrapped around his eyes, protecting them from light and Jascha’s burning desire to rub at them until they stopped feeling weird.

        “Alright, you’re all set,” Ernest patted him on the arm. “I’ll get the dirty details of your secret Lithuanian conversations from Henry later,”

        “No, don’t,” Jascha said miserably. “Please. I’ll die.”

        “Nah,” Ernest said lightly. “You’ll live.” He helped him to his feet, guiding him towards the door. “See you at dinner, Henry. Thanks for babysitting for like. Ages.”

        “It was fun,” Henry said happily. “I’d be happy to do it again.” 

        “No, it’s okay,” Jascha said quickly. Ernest chuckled quietly.

        “We can see about joint custody tomorrow,” Ernest said as they left the room.

        Jascha knew his way through the house adequately, so it didn’t take too long for Ernest to guide him up all the stairs and to his bedroom. Jascha felt like a little kid, getting tucked in by Ernest.

        “What did you say about me?” Ernest asked, almost coyly.

        “I honestly do not know,” Jascha admitted.

        “What do you  think  you said?” Now he could hear the smirk. Jascha felt his blush return.

        “I don’t know.” Jascha said firmly. He felt Ernest’s hand against his stomach. He couldn’t say he wasn’t a little aroused, but he was also drugged and exhausted. And he was comfortable. He wouldn’t last long before sleep claimed him, and Ernest probably knew it.

        “Well,” Ernest said quietly. “Rest a little. I’ll ask again later.”

        “I love you,” Jascha said, half-asleep as he rolled onto his side.

        Ernest kissed him on his cheek and on his neck, smoothing his hair back. “I love you, too. I’m gonna go check on people downstairs, but I’ll-”

        Jascha didn’t hear the rest. He fell asleep the minute Ernest stroked his hair.

 

* * *

 

        Ernest smiled, and kissed Jascha one more time for good measure. It was difficult, but he always found he was happiest when he could channel his anxiety into affection. He wanted desperately to curl up around Jascha, just in case another night terror haunted his sleep. They weren’t frequent, but they were awful. He hadn’t quite gotten the one from a couple days ago out of his head. He pressed his face into Jascha’s hair one more time before he got up. Jascha smelled more like him now, and a little like Victor’s lab, but there were still traces of Jascha’s shampoo. He was pretty sure it was the same brand he’d used as a kid, but he associated it with Jascha now, and that was comforting.

        He pulled himself out of bed, reluctant for his next task. He stretched, feeling his criminally under-used muscles ache as he did. Britney popped angrily as he stood, a second reminder that he’d been neglecting his usual regimen of exercise and physical therapy. Calling Liam had been the first. Poor kid thought he’d died, and Ernest felt a stab of guilt. He’d honestly forgotten that the soccer team might not actually know everything that had happened, and that they would worry if he disappeared. He’d been...preoccupied. But he did call Liam back, thirty voicemails later, and promised to meet him back on campus to work out and get lunch. If he was gonna have to come out to him, he’d rather do it in person, he’d decided.

        Victor. That was next on the agenda. Ever since the operation, and Henry becoming an absolute wreck every time he entered a room, it was time to talk. He’d already broken his vow of silence for Jascha’s sake, so what the hell? It’s not like Victor could make things worse than he already had. Ernest locked up his bedroom, just to be safe. He knew better than to jinx Victor’s crazy. Better not to tempt the devil when he lives in your own house.

        He jogged down the stairs, striding easily to the study, which had since become Victor’s stay-at-home prison. He cocked his head when he saw the door open, and Justine inside.

        “Justine?” He asked. She smiled slightly as she turned to face him.

        “Ernest,” she said warmly. There was shuffling, and Victor appeared beside her. Ernest clenched his jaw. What an unwelcome funhouse mirror he was. So like Ernest, but so not him.

        “What do you want?” Victor bit. “We were talking.”

        “I was actually wondering if we could talk,” Ernest swallowed his childhood fear. He had the upper hand here. No amount of past death threats could stop that. He watched as Victor started the math, trying to determine whether he was in trouble or heading towards a trap.

        “Cool,” Justine said easily. “I’ll be downstairs.”

        “Justine-” Victor started, but she was gone. Ernest looked at her as she placed a hand on his shoulder lightly before she left.

        “So…” Ernest looked back to his brother. “You down to talk?”

        “Sure, why not,” Victor shot him his sickly grin. Ernest knew better than to balk or show him any fear. He entered the room and closed the door. He leaned against the desk, letting Victor have the chair. “So how’s Jascha?” Victor asked after a pause.

        Ernest nodded, careful in his response. Any sign of strong emotion could drag out the beast in Victor, so it was best to stay detached. “He’s good. He’s sleeping now.”

        “Is he still high as a kite?” Victor asked, looking at his nails. “He gets horribly talkative when he’s drugged. I don’t know how you bear it.”

        “He’s coming down,” Ernest said stiffly. He’d ignore the second part. It was a bait. Victor wanted him to expose his, for lack of a better term, Achilles’ heel. It was always his affection.

        “Strange night he had last night,” Victor said idly. He didn’t look up from his bloody cuticles. “Does he usually panic in the car?” Now Victor looked up, wicked sharpness in his eyes. The kind that used to send Ernest running to their dad.

        Ernest was about to cover for him; to proceed to the route of his planned conversation. But he paused. “Yeah, a couple times. He’s gotten better lately,” Ernest said softly. He met Victor’s gaze, leveling it with his own practiced sharpness. The kind he normally saved only for competition. “He doesn’t like talking about it.”   
        Victor held up his hands defensively. “Jeez, I was just worried.” Victor’s gaze was still thorny with interest. “You don’t need to be so protective.”   
        Ernest scoffed. “Yeah, right. Because you’re so prone to genuine concern.”

        “At least I don’t seep sentimentality all over the house,” Victor said as he stood. Ernest had expressed emotion. That was his invitation.

        “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m doing  much  better than you socially,” Ernest said firmly. His year away from Victor made him resistant to his fear strategies. Besides, there was nothing Victor could do to him that would be worse than what happened at the frat.

        Victor looked vicious, and Ernest braced himself. “Maybe so. But how well do you even know Jascha? You’ve only been together a month or two. Probably only fucked once or-”

        “Victor,” Ernest said through gritted teeth.

        “-twice. Tell me, how is his dick working out for you? Are you going to miss those hands wrapped around your-”

        “Victor!” Ernest hissed. “Don’t you, like, have anything better to do than be jealous of me? I don’t know, maybe trying to treat Henry better? Or anything?”

        Victor actually broke. Only for half a second, but Ernest was an athlete. He was trained to see the minute shifts in his opponent’s body. “I’m not jealous,” Victor said weakly.

        “Yeah, right,” Ernest said sarcastically. “Which is definitely why you talk about our sex life at every turn. And gawk whenever I dare to kiss or even smile at him.” Ernest felt the ecstatic wave of watching defeat toy subtly across Victor’s features. It didn’t last long before empathy caught up with him, and he felt bad. Ernest sighed. “I know it’s because you’re upset about Henry,” he said gently.

        “I…” Victor hesitated. “You’ve only known each other a month. It doesn’t make sense,” Victor said accusingly, but in it Ernest spotted genuine confusion. It softened something twisted and gnarled within him. Perhaps Victor had a few traces of human left in him.

        “It’s more like two now,” Ernest said with a breath.

        “That isn’t long enough,” Victor was barely hiding it now. Ernest could see the confusion, anger, and irritation play across his brother’s sickly features.

        “How long is long enough?” Ernest asked honestly. “A year? Ten? Fifteen?” Victor backed down slightly, a piece of anger replaced by embarrassment, perhaps. “When does it become too long?” Ernest pressed. He liked watching Victor writhe under the weight of his own humanity. It was satisfying, after all the years of psychological warfare.

        “I…” Victor looked away, seething. “Well played. Maybe you aren’t an imbecile.”

        “I already wasn’t. I assisted with the surgery, and I know I have a better GPA than you,” Ernest added, bored. Victor was resorting to his ancient insults.

        “Why are you even here?” Victor said viciously. He hated having his intelligence slighted, and any reference to his abysmal grades was a slight.

        “Honestly?” Ernest watched as Victor raised an eyebrow. He could tell Victor was bracing himself for some sort of revenge. Ernest rolled his eyes and sighed. “I wanted to thank you.” Victor gaped at him.

        “What?” Victor asked, genuinely shocked. Ernest might have laughed if he weren’t so uncomfortable. Talking to Victor was about as exhausting as running a half-marathon.

        “I wanted to thank you.” Ernest looked away. He didn’t care if Victor would tell him it was a sign of submissiveness; he was impossible to look at. “For Jascha. Like, I...know it doesn’t really make sense that he’s here, and alive and shit…” He looked back at Victor, who was still gawking at him. “But I really like him. I’m, like, totally in love with him. And, well. He wouldn’t be here without you,” Victor’s mouth was finally closed, but he still stared. “And you did a good thing, I think. Helping him get his hands back. And the, uh, eyes.”

        “I mean,” Victor finally said. “The eyes are a downgrade. But you’re welcome, I guess.”

        “Cool,” Ernest bounced on his toes slightly. “That was what I wanted to say. I’m gonna, like. Go.” He started to leave.

        “Wait,” Victor said as he reached the door. It sounded like it took every shred of Victor’s strength to speak that single word, so Ernest turned. Victor wasn’t looking at him, and was instead tracing a pattern on the rug with his toe.

        “How do you do it?” Victor asked, barely audible.

        “What?” Ernest asked. He’d heard, but he wanted to hear Victor ask again.

        “How do you do it?” Victor looked up at him. He looked like he was in agony.

        “Like, what? Which thing?” Ernest asked, cocking his head slightly.

        “People,” Victor said the word like it was dirty. “How are you so good with them, and getting them to like you, and liking them?”

        Ernest shrugged. “I just like them. And they like me because I like them,” Ernest said easily. “I guess. I don’t know. I tell them I like them, and if I make them sad I apologize.”

        “That’s it?” Victor asked blankly.

        “I mean, that’s the general strategy,” Ernest said almost curtly. “I guess if you, like, mean specifically how I’d deal with, oh, I don’t know. Something huge, like, say, whatever is happening with Henry, then that’s different.” Ernest looked down at him, watching as Victor eyed the bait. Victor stared at him with narrowed eyes for several seconds. “What?” Ernest asked innocuously.

        “Fine,” Victor spat. “Tell me how to fix it, if you know so much.”

        “First,” Ernest said firmly. “Never talk about Henry as someone you need to ‘fix.’ Or, like, an ‘it.’ That’s just rude.” Victor seethed, and it only urged Ernest on. “Second, you’re gonna have to prove that you have your fucking shit tidied up. He’s kinda messed up, and I’m pretty sure he thinks he’s some sort of pathetic burden, which is nuts, because if anyone is a pathetic burden it’s you,” Victor looked angry, and possibly hurt.

        Ernest looked at him sharply, dropping his voice to a low, threatening tone. A fierce, protective anger welled in his throat, and he closed the distance between the two of them. “And if you try to squirm your way out of taking accountability by having another little Ingolstadt moment over this, I won’t let you near him again. Do you understand? You’ve been abusive, and twisted, and I don’t care if it’s because you got fucked up by someone else or yourself. Henry is a good person, and he’s been hurt too, and deserves to be happy.” Ernest took a deep breath.

        Victor was somehow even paler than he was before. Ernest felt a little guilty. He knew that Victor wasn’t entirely at fault for his breakdowns. But he was always lucid, which meant he knew what words came out of this mouth when he was losing it. And Henry was suffering without a valid reason. “Victor, I know that you care about him. Probably even love him, in your own...way. Right?” Ernest asked. It took Victor a second to realize the question wasn’t rhetorical.

        “I do,” Victor said softly.

        “Good,” Ernest nodded. “Then show him. In, like, a normal way. Not by asking him to kill you, or, like, anything dark and creepy like that.”

        “I don’t-”

        “You  do  know how,” Ernest said firmly. “He’s your best friend. I know you know, at least in theory, how to care about people. Even if you never cared about me or William.”

        “I care about William!” Victor said defensively. He was glad William mattered at least, though Ernest felt himself prickle with hurt. He saw something strange shift on Victor’s face. Sadness, or regret maybe? “And I care about you, too,” Victor muttered.

        “What?” Ernest blinked. He wondered if he’d misheard.

        “I do care,” Victor said, a little louder. “I...It’s complicated.”

        “You threatened to kill me more times than I can remember,” Ernest said sharply. He felt something open up; some box he’d sealed up years ago. Before he’d gone to college. Possibly even before high school. “You wanted me dead. You don’t-” Ernest bit his lip. He knew better than to cry in front of Victor. This was a trick. It was always a trick.

        “I know you’re about to cry,” Victor said, dark eyebrow raised slightly.

        “Shut up,” Ernest mumbled. “Anyways, I’m going to go.” Ernest reached for the door knob, but jumped when he felt a cold, bony hand grip his. He turned, shocked and horrified to see Victor holding him in place. Victor looked surprised as well. “What are you-”

        “I’m sorry,” Victor said quietly, stunned by his own words. Ernest felt something; an old knife, maybe; pull out of his back. A wound he’d counted as sealed opening up. But he was older, smarter, and shoved his feelings back, if only by inches.

        “Are you lying?” Ernest asked quickly. “Is this a trick?”

        “Nope,” Victor laughed hollowly, and then it turned into crying. “I-I guess not. I don’t know why this is happening.”

        Ernest was always abysmal at not crying when other people were crying. He reached out and touched his brother’s face, feeling the wetness of a tear as if to check its realness. He felt like he was in a dream, not the real world.

        “You wanted me dead,” Ernest said hollowly. “All our lives. After mom died. You told me you wished it was me instead,” his own voice cracked. “And with Henry, too. When I saw the blood that time, and you were crying. You said it would be better if it was me. When I was four, you made me eat monkshood. When you came home from Germany-”

        “Don’t finish it,” Victor said weakly. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of it. That I was the worst. Am the worst.”

        Ernest felt dazed. All these memories out of the bulletproof box he’d shoved them into. The horror of them, the threats. Some of them were weak and passing. Some were real and tangible, like when Victor had pulled a knife on him during a fight when they were eight and nine. He’d lunged with it and cut Ernest’s arm. They were both inconsolable.

        “Victor,” Ernest whispered. “If this is a trick, like every other apology you’ve ever-”

        “Jesus, Ernest, just shut up and come here,” Victor interjected. He pulled Ernest into a hug, the first one they’d ever done without adult command since they were toddlers. Even his most seemingly sincere false apologies had never come with a hug.

        “You aren’t lying?” Ernest asked, tentatively wrapping his arms around Victor’s scrawny body. He waited for a blade to be shoved in his back, or a needle in his neck.

        “I’m not,” Victor said into his sweater. “Trust me, I’m horrified, too.”

        Ernest hugged him tighter, relaxing his guard. He felt overwhelmed by the box of repressed memories, but also by the overwhelming relief. For how long had he craved any kind of affection from Victor? How many times had he cried, miserably lonely as a kid, wishing he could go play with Victor? How much less painful would Mom’s death have been if Victor had been there for him or held him, like he was doing now?

        He didn’t cry until he felt Victor’s hand at the back of his head, his thumb stroking his hair gently. That was it. There would be no knife; no poison-filled needle. He clamped his eyes shut and gripped Victor tightly, pressing his face against his neck.

        “I missed you so much,” Ernest whispered. “I wanted you to love me so badly,” he choked on a sob. “Even when you threatened me. Or hurt me. I still wanted you to love me.”

        “I do,” Victor said quietly, rocking them both slightly in place. “I never really wanted you to get hurt.” Victor drew a sharp breath. “I...figured out what happened. And I hated it. Ernest, I hated that someone hurt you,” Victor’s voice broke.

        Ernest felt pain blossom in his chest at the reference to Mason. But it was a healthy pain; like digging out a splinter or cleaning a wound. It would hurt to say anything, but Victor kept holding him and stroking his hair. “I thought you’d laugh at me,” Ernest said softly.

        Victor pulled away, and cupped Ernest’s face in his hands. For the first time in his life, he was certain that he didn’t have to fear the intensity in Victor’s eyes. “Ernest. Listen. I know what it’s like to have something forced on you,” Victor’s gaze softened; something it had never done before. Ernest closed his eyes. “I might have been a dick if you told me, but I can promise you I wouldn’t have laughed. Not about that. Not ever.”

        Ernest couldn’t fight the next wave of tears even if he wanted to. Everyone else knew. Everyone except Victor. And even he knew now, and he didn’t think it was Ernest’s fault. He felt something heavy lift off his chest; the final weight of his perceived guilt. He leaned against Victor, drawing warmth from him and letting himself relax to his touch, even if guarded. A part of him still waited for the blade to meet his flesh, for the ultimate betrayal. But it never came.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ты знаешь все мои секреты: You know all my secrets
> 
> Зачем?: Why?
> 
> Он идеален. Все что он делает идеально: He's perfect. Everything he does is perfect. 
> 
> Ты идеальный. Я рад, что знаю тебя: You're perfect. I'm glad I know you.


	39. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry bonds with Jascha. Victor apologizes. Jascha tries to recover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! As always, thanks for sticking with us for so long! I hope you're all having as much fun as we are.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Homophobic language, needles, descriptions of medical procedures and car accidents.

         “Are you sure that’s the move you want to make?” Henry asked and Jascha leaned over the board.

        “I don’t know. I mean, I guess. I can’t even see the board that well,” Jascha seemed both incredibly annoyed at his infirmity and glad for the challenging distraction playing chess provided.

        “Okay, hear me out,” Henry explained. “That’s how a knight moves. That’s a bishop and it has to move diagonally.”

        “That’s a bishop? Are you sure? They all look like the same white blobs.” Jascha picked up the piece in his hand and Henry laughed as he tried to bring it into focus.  

        “I promise it’s actually a bishop,” Henry said as he sat up and returned the piece to the board. “Now, do you want me to move the real knight, or the bishop?”

        “Uh, move my bishop to challenge your rook.”

        “That’s a pawn.”

        “Whatever.”

        “Are you sure about that?” Henry cocked his head.

        “Yes, I’m sure, just move the thing.” Jascha was not particularly gifted with a good sense of strategy.

        “Okay, if you do this and I can do that…” he mused, drawing out the syllables. “And that, my man, is check mate.”

        “No,” Jascha gasped. “No, that can’t possibly be right. I could try to...or I could...but that’s a…Okay, you win Henry.”

        “I accept my award only in the form of laurel crowns and Olympic ribbons.” Henry pat Jascha on the shoulder and started cleaning up the game.

        “I’m afraid we’re a little short on laurel trees in the middle of the Chicago winter. My apologies.” Jascha tried to sound upset, but he was smiling too.

        “Was it a good distraction?” Henry asked.

        “Good as anything else,” Jascha sighed. “It still hurts a lot.”

        “I know. Ernest says you’ll feel better soon-ish though, right?”

        “Yeah,” Jascha grumbled. “He said they were healing well and that I should be glad nothing is going wrong.”

        “Well, that’s fantastic!” Henry said, trying to keep his voice upbeat. “You’ll be good to go in no time!”

        “I just miss my violin.” Jascha sighed.

        “Have you played since...everything?” He asked.

        “I did...once, but it wasn’t the same. I want my violin, you know? It makes a difference.”  Jascha seemed profoundly upset in a way that Henry didn’t really understand. A violin was just a violin, right? They just did the same things and made the same sounds. There’s only so much difference you can get out of a well-crafted hunk of wood.

        “Maybe you could ask your parents to bring it with them? Or, I don’t know, just go get it. It has to be around here somewhere.” Henry was really trying but the technicalities of music were hard for him.

        Jascha laughed hollowly. “I can’t just steal Kroshka from my parents. They probably don’t even have her anymore.”

        “What do you mean? I guess I don’t know your parents at all, but if my kid...” he took a look at Jascha’s face and stopped that sentence. “I’d definitely keep it.”

        “She’s gone, Henry,” the words seemed difficult for him. “That truck crushed me. I...her wood...she’s so much more fragile than bone.”

        “They would fix it.” Henry said firmly. “It’s important to you and they would want it around.”

        “I hope you’re right,” Jascha mumbled and there was a long stretch of silence. It made Henry’s skin crawl. His biggest secret was that he was actually terrified of the quiet. Especially now. He felt like it would wrap around his shoulders and completely consume him. How pathetic was that? Afraid of the dark. Afraid of the quiet. Afraid of being alone. Victor was right, he really wasn’t himself unless he was suffering. He wanted to pitch himself out a window, but that would only cause Jascha to feel more distressed.

        “So, you’re dad’s a luthier?” He asked awkwardly.

        “Yeah, and he’s really amazing. He had been renovating Kroshka since I was a little kid,” he smiled. “I was so happy the day I first got to play her. You know, I was pretty little but I knew. I knew I wanted her forever.”

        “That’s really nice, Jascha,” Henry sighed. “I wish I had something like that.”

        “But you do,” Jascha propped himself up on his elbow and theoretically looked Henry in the eye. “You have your poetry, I’ve seen you talk about it. You clearly love it a lot.”

        “It’s a little different from music though, isn’t it?  You had to work so hard and...you know.” Henry blushed and tried to relax into the couch. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I work hard too, but it doesn’t feel very...you know...difficult.”

        “I don’t know how to analyze poetry. Not really. It’s a skill you have to learn.” Jascha shrugged.

        “I haven’t even worked on my thesis in like a month,” panic rose in Henry’s voice. “I’m so far behind. Adelaide is going to kill me.”

        “I’m sure she won’t,” Jascha tried to calm him down. “It’s okay. You’ve been through a lot. Maybe if you just call her--”

        “Then she’ll tell me to take a break, and I can’t do that.” Henry was embarrassed about how high his voice had gotten.    

        “Are you not already taking a break?” Jascha asked. It was a valid question, but one that sent blades of ice into Henry’s spine.

        “I...I...no? Yes? I don’t know. I just don’t want to add this to my ever growing list of failures.”

        “Henry,” Jascha sat back. “You’re going to finish your thesis. It’s not that big of a deal. A ton of people take breaks.”

        “I know...but just. That, on top of everything else? I can’t do anything right. I can’t even look at Victor without being overcome with fear and dread.”

        “I know, Henry.” Jascha rubbed his back and tried to be comforting, but it reminded Henry a little too much of what Victor used to do to calm him down. He pulled away and could see the hurt in Jascha’s unfocused eyes.

        “I’m already a failure. How can you even bear to be near me?” Henry squished himself against the arm of the couch, trying to put as much distance between himself and Jascha as possible. “I’m just going to ruin you.”

        “Ruin me?” Jascha asked with a laugh that faded to concern. “You’re serious?” Henry nodded and pressed his forehead to his knees. “Henry,” the nervous laugh returned to his voice again. “You brought me food and clothes when I had nothing and taught me how to make my bed again.”

        “You would have figured it out eventually.”

        “Probably, but it would have taken me forever. I could barely talk. You gave me back my name. How on earth could you possibly think that you’ll ruin me? Next to Ernest, you practically gave me my life back. That’s not nothing.”

        “I didn’t do it well enough,” Henry tried to shrink farther away, but it just wasn’t possible.

        “You did. You’ve done so many great things for everyone. Even Alphonse and Victor. Henry, you absolutely cannot let your struggles with Victor completely define you,” Jascha reached out and Henry wanted to take his hand, but knew it was a bad idea. “Victor is going to be Victor, and maybe he’ll get better and maybe he won’t.” Henry look a sharp breath and felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes. “He will get better,” Jascha continued. “But it’s up to him, not you, to make that decision. You should do wonderful things for your own sake.”

        “Jascha, Henry!” Ernest burst in the room startling them both. “...Why are you both crying?” Jascha was crying? Henry hadn’t noticed and it made him feel worse.

        “We were just talking about Victor and Henry and it’s just a lot,” Jascha explained. He flinched as he tried to wipe his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

        “Oh, um,” Ernest shifted awkwardly from side to side. “Should I save my good news then?”

        “Is it good news about Victor?” Jascha asked, having regained his composure much quicker than Henry.

        “Uh, yeah. Yeah, it really is.” Ernest ran a hand through his hair as his eyes moved wildly. “He apologized. Like, he really, really apologized.”

        “What?” Henry deadpanned. “He apologized to  _ you _ _?_ ”

        “Well, I guess when you put it in that tone of voice…” Ernest shrank away from him and Henry shot up.

        “No, no, no, I didn’t mean it like that at all. I’m just...you know…well, he’s Victor.” Henry wanted to run and hide but Ernest and Jaschas’ energies kept him centered in the room.

        “He really apologized,” Ernest said, the tears starting again. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

         Henry enveloped him in a hug. Ernest gripped him so hard it cracked a spot of tension in his spine. The smell of cinnamon and comfort settled over him like snow and he allowed himself the luxury of being happy with Ernest. Jascha seemed jealous that he couldn’t properly hug Ernest too, so the three of them sat together on the couch as Ernest told them everything about what happened.

        By the end of the story, Henry felt something burning in his chest. Pride? Maybe it meant Jascha was right, and Victor really could get better. Maybe it meant nothing at all. Maybe it was Victor playing another cruel joke on him, just one more thing to make him suffer. Maybe it was real. Maybe.

 

* * *

 

        He didn’t like the parallels. He’d never liked fate in general or destiny or predestination or any of that but parallels were by far the worst.

        Victor was breathing normally now, a change from the last ten hours of cycling between crying and stuffing his panic down his throat, which was good. He was showered and dressed and had even gone to the trouble of shaving the measly amount of hair off his chin, which was also good. Hell, he’d even prepared for what he wanted to say, writing it out twice and having his father read it to make sure it sounded lucid, which was, in and of itself, incredible because Victor never let anyone proofread his work. Yet, in spite of all that, he still felt woefully unprepared.

        Talking to Ernest, like actually talking to Ernest, had simultaneously helped and hindered his state of mind. On the one hand, it was fantastic finally being able to get some of the years of weight off his chest, making a start on the amends he still had to make, being able to talk to his brother without, well, the other thinking he was going to murder him. All very nice. And weird. And horrific. And unexpected and terrifying and amazing and way too much because what that conversation really meant was that now Victor had to keep making amends and being present and existing. It meant that he now owed Ernest something which he swore he never would: Honest to god brotherly love. He didn’t even know how to do that. He guessed he had to learn now. He wanted to learn.

        Man, he really  was  bad at emotions. He’d managed one whole spurt of affection towards Ernest and then had to cry it off for like ten fucking hours afterwards. Who in their right mind cried for ten hours straight? And he still felt terrible! Even if he deserved to, considering everything about the talk...he hadn’t realized Ernest remembered the knife thing…

        Still. It didn’t bode well for the next task he had to complete.

        Not task. This wasn’t a task. This was a talk. This was Henry.

        Victor considered the door once more, tracing the red cursive of his name, the blank space where Henry’s used to be. Clutching the cool metal in his pocket. Parallels. Parallels were going to be the death of him. How many weeks ago had it been that he’d come home, lingered in the hall, burst into the same room, and declared his part: ‘Also I think I’m in love with you.’ How fucking romantic. How quickly that had died beneath his cruel hand, too.

        He took a step back. Forward again. And back. He couldn’t do this. He released the metal circle. He really needed to do this. He gripped it again. It was absolutely essential that he did this and soon and now or he’d never do it and Henry would continue on thinking that he was pathetic or a burden or any of the things he could never, ever be because maybe Henry wasn’t perfect but he was about as close to it as anyone Victor had ever met.

        He raised his hand to the door to knock, wondering just how much nerve he really had, before dropping it again. This wasn’t going to work. Henry was terrified of Victor, so how was he supposed to sit in the same room with him long enough to do this? Maybe he should have taken his dad up on his offer to mediate the conversation. Then again, that felt like such a cop out, having your dad make you apologize. That was five year old behavior. Victor needed to grow up.

        Forcing a deep breath, Victor knocked on the door. “Hey,” he called, already aware of how weak his voice sounded, “it’s, uh, it’s Victor. I was...Could I talk to you? It’s fine if you’d rather not right now. If you don’t answer, I won’t bother you again.”

        There wasn’t a sound. Nothing shuffling in the room, no movement here or there. Victor felt a pulse of relief before the subsequent swell of grief drowned that sensation within its boiling depths. “Okay.” He whispered as he took a step away from the room. If Henry wasn’t ready to talk to him, Victor wasn’t going to push him. Maybe it was for the best anyways. He was bound to mess up any interaction he had with Henry. He’d infected every single aspect of their friendship, after all. And relationship, if you could call it that.  Lovers.

        The door creaked open.

        It was only a sliver; a slight shaft of light which illuminated the dark inside; but it was enough for Victor to see and enough to let his heart plummet as he observed the persistent tautness of Henry’s stance, the wariness in his eyes, and, fuck, Victor knew that he shouldn’t even think it but he couldn’t help but imagine that was how Henry had looked at Lawrence before-

        “Hi.” Victor wouldn’t move, suddenly or at all, as he forced his voice back to working.

        “Hello.” Henry said. He didn’t withdraw from the door nor did he open it further. But he didn’t close it. It was all Victor could latch onto as he drove his speech back to a normal-ish volume.

        “There’s...I wanted to…” With desperation, Victor tried to recall what he’d went over with his dad. Notes. He’d made notes and bullet points and reviewed them twice and he couldn’t conjure up a single thing to say. This was way too important to wing. Henry was staring at him, door just a bit further ajar, a fraction of the tension slacked from his shoulders.

        “I don’t want you to murder me.”

        Great. Oh, this was just freaking fantastic, A+ opener. He should have just taken his notes with him. He should have had Liz speak to Henry for him. He should convince Henry he’s pregnant. He should absolutely not try and convince Henry he’s pregnant. He should stop buffering like a computer with bad dial up.

        As the hitch in Henry’s shoulders rose to a pitch, Victor took another step back and smiled shakily. “What I meant to say is...I’m sorry. For that. Well, that specific statement but also for...everything else. Especially for everything else.” Victor had to keep pace with his fingers to ensure he wasn’t speaking too fast. He couldn’t met Henry’s eyes. He couldn’t make any movements. He couldn’t be a threat. Anymore than he already was. “I’m sorry for manipulating you. And mistreating you. And convincing you that…” Where did he even begin with that one? “...convincing you that you’re a burden. Or pathetic. Or...you know.” Victor was going to be sick on the carpet. “Calling you a…”

        “A fag.” Henry interrupted him.

        Victor looked up sharply at the unexpected intrusion, the tone which threaded anger and acceptance and resignation and guilt and fear and disgust as tightly as a cotton sheet. Henry was so easy to read. Victor couldn’t read him.

        “A fag.” Victor agreed quietly. “I shouldn’t have- I’m sorry I did. I’m sorry I meant it.”

        Henry was immobile in the doorway and Victor forced himself to take yet another step away. Slow and steady. “You’re not anything I said you were. You never were. That was all on me. This has all been my fault.”

        “But you meant it.” Henry said. His voice was thinner than the sliver in the door.

        “I did.” Victor admitted. “I’m a bad-” The memory cut him short. Blood in the bathtub, Victor sobbing and screaming, and then Henry was gone and lost and it had been Victor who’d driven him to that edge once more. He couldn’t. “I’m sick. Or, I guess I should say, my thoughts have never exactly been...great. Everything I’ve said, I’ve thought before. And...will probably think again. It was my fault for letting them be said, though. For saying them. I hurt you. I should have been more careful. I should have more control than I did. Do.”

        Victor looked away again. Against the carpet, he could see the door inching closed. Slowly, slowly. He swallowed hard. “And I know it doesn’t make sense because I wasn't lying when I said I loved you.”

        The door paused. Victor pushed himself on.

        “I have lots of explanations for the why of what happened,” Victor softened his tone and commanded himself not to cry, “not good ones, but they’re there if you want them. But I didn’t want to talk about all my excuses. I just...I needed to make sure you knew that I was wrong.”

        The words were tumbling now, not so much ripping their way free as they did when aimed at Ernest; short clipped sentences and dripping poison tears; but pouring up his throat, out his mouth, maybe even down his cheeks. He couldn’t be sure. He didn’t know how to be sure. Victor drew a hard hand across his eyes to clear them of wetness because crying right now would be manipulation; manipulation of Henry and his natural caring and his passion for love and in love and about love; that which defined him more than any book or physical boundary.

        There was no desperation in his words now. Only sorrow, overwhelming and weathered. “I was  wrong , Henry. I’ve been wrong about everything. You are...You’ve always been amazing. You’re passionate and empathetic and smart and so full of, I don’t know, light?” He hesitated and squeezed his eyes closed. “Brightness.” He decided. “You’ve always been full of brightness. You could never be a burden. On anyone. All you do is lift up the people around you and I--I kept you from doing that. I was the selfish one. I didn’t know how to make my own light so I took yours and I hoarded it, demanded you couldn’t give it to anyone else. Not Ernest or Jascha or even Liz; not really. I trapped you. I tricked you into loving me and then I got scared and guilty and fucked up and wouldn’t even give you the decency to love you back properly. I’ve been abusive and vile and I…” There was no helping the crying. It was choking him. “I really am just like…”

        He bit his tongue to force the words down. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not like this.

        “I’m sorry.” He settled the heaving to a softer deluge. “You deserved an Achilles but all you got out of me was a Hamlet.”

        Victor felt his heart seize with sharpness as Henry’s shoes appeared in his line of sight, into the hall.

        “You know,” the thinness was closer now, separated only by a few feet and freed from the thick wood, “I never really got into Shakespeare.”

        “Yeah.” Victor said. “I know. You always were, uh,” he tried to laugh but it came out jagged and broken, “married to the Greeks. And Whitman.”

        There was silence. Too much silence. Too thin to properly breathe, too thick to swallow.

        “I…” Henry sounded as lost as Victor felt and there was nothing missing from his tone, all messy piles of emotional wreckage and barely held tears. “What do we do?” The question was small. The question was infinitely weighted.

        “Whatever you want to do.” Victor said then paused. “I’m sorry, that’s not...um, that’s much of an answer.” With clenched jaw and a physical ripping of his stiffened muscles, Victor forced himself back to Henry’s level. He held the other’s gaze even as the dizzying waves of heartache washed him backwards into the riptide of his own breaking. “I- I need to get better. And I will.” He forced confidence into his statement, summoning every bit of strength he had. “But I’ve got to do that alone and I think...I’ve made you wait long enough.”

        “So you don’t even want me anymore?” It was obvious the words weren’t meant to be spoken aloud. Henry went mute immediately, face paling to bloodless before his eyes.

        This time, a harsh surprise strained Victor’s laugh. “I--No, of course, I--Henry, I have never loved anyone more than I love you. I have never loved anything more than I love you.”

        “Not even your science.” Henry said bitterly.

        “I would give it up.” Victor erupted before he could stop himself. “I would give up all of that for you. You wouldn’t be happy with me as a bitchy theater major, but I could do it. For you.” He blinked and shook his head violently. “But that’s not the point. The point is I’m--I can’t...You are _ wonderful _ . And if you want it, there are so many people out there who can make you happy and treat you better than I ever could. You could have so much more. Because, Henry, you’re going to be okay.” Victor poured as much certainty as could be managed into his eyes, trying to let Henry see only what he saw, letting the other peer through his vision. “You’re going to be more than okay. In fact, you’re going to be great! You never needed me and now you’ve got Jascha and Ernest and Liz and Justine and so many more people just waiting to meet you and you’re going to go be a professor and get that house you always wanted in the middle of nowhere with a garden and a huge fireplace and have, like, two kids that you’ll name Eurydice and Winston and you’ll get to Whitman it up the rest of your long, long life. Henry, you’re going to be so happy one day, you won’t even be able to believe it!”

        Henry searched his face with raw amber eyes. “I don’t-”

        “You will.” Victor plowed over him. “I mean, fuck, you’ve been through so much already, this can’t be the end. You’re going to be great. And I’m going to be...I’m going to be okay too. We’ll both be okay. Eventually.” A small but honest smile broke across his lips. “You’re going to be so amazing, Henry.”

        He allowed the silence to hang again but when Henry didn’t fill it, he made due with the unsaid. “I’ll stay if you want me to,” he said softly. “And I’ll leave if that’s what you want. And, uh, before you worry,” he grinned loosley, “Dad’s already told me that no matter what, you’re still part of the family. I think the exact words were ‘Henry is a son to me and always will be no matter the state of your relationship,’ so…” Victor shook his head. “You get an out on me, but I think you’re stuck with the rest of the household, Henry Frankenstein.”

        Henry stared. Then something broke; a bubbling laugh which gave way to thick tears. “Henry Frankenstein?” He asked, incredulously.

        Victor shrugged shyly. “Welcome to the family. They, uh, don’t have a crest or anything, but if you want, I’m sure William will make you an official badge. I’m pretty sure he’s already working on one for Jascha.”

        “He and Ernest really are in love.” Henry said simply. A note of something bitter laced the words despite his best efforts.

        “I know.” Victor raised his eyebrows. “Can you believe that? Like, of all the weird coincidences in the world, Ernest just happens to fall in love with the guy I brought back from the dead? It’s almost too weird.”

        “You always did hate fate.” Henry didn’t bother to wipe the flow of tears from his cheeks as he appraised Victor. “Did you mean it?”

        “Mean it?”

        “When you apologized to Ernest.”

        “Yes.” Victor said surely. “Though...I know that doesn’t make much sense either.”

        “I think it makes more sense than you think it does.”

        Victor took a hasty step back as fear refilled Henry’s eyes, internally and externally preparing himself to book it, before a hand landed firmly on his chest, right above his heart. Victor looked at it and back to Henry in complete confusion.

        “You’ll leave if I want you to?” Henry repeated.

        Heartbreak. Maybe relief. “Yes.” Victor confirmed.

        “And if I want you to stay?”

        “I’ll stay.” Victor reached up hesitantly and allowed his hand to rest on top of Henry’s, snug against the curve of his chest. He savored the warmth and welcome sing of it, memorizing the feel as if it were the last time he could.

        Henry steeled himself. “And you’re not lying?”

        “No.”

        “This isn’t a trick?”

        “No.”

        The steel snapped and the quaver lit through Henry’s voice once more. “How can I be sure? How can I know this is real? I don’t...Victor, I don’t know if I can trust you anymore. How can I trust you?” Henry yanked his hand away, taking with it all the comfort Victor so desperately craved. As he curled back on himself, Victor mirrored the action. Parallels.

        Victor took a breath. “I don’t know.” He confessed. “I don’t know.”

        It was the cue for Victor to leave. He would only hurt Henry more if he lingered. “Here.” He dug in his pocket and produced the watch the way a magician might a card. He shoved it inelegantly into Henry’s hand, careful not to brush skin. Even in the dim light, the constellations lining the surface caught the light, bright and bold. “I’m sorry it took me so long to find it.”

        Henry couldn’t tear his gaze from the small object, held limply between his fingers. “Find it?” He asked as if in a daze.

        “Yeah. I, uh, had it for a while. Then with everything going on and such…” Victor trailed. “I figured you’d want it back.”

        “But I lost it.” Henry said. “I sold it to that man at Bastion.”

        “I, um.” Victor coughed awkwardly. “May have threatened him and gotten it back. But, anyway. There’s that.”

        He turned to leave but he forced his worn body to a halt. “You’ll let me know what you decide, right?” He asked anxiously, terror crackling in every curve.

        Whatever trance Henry was in seemed to break like a whip and he looked up wildly, one hand closing white-fisted around the watch. He met Victor’s fearful face and for a second Victor thought he saw softness there. Or maybe he hoped. Maybe.

        Henry nodded. “I will.”

        That was all he could ask for.

 

* * *

 

        “Jascha, can you please open the door?” Ernest said gently. “Please?”

        “Nope.” Jascha stayed hunkered against the wall on the far side of the bathroom.

        “I promise you that this isn’t going to be as bad as it seems,” Ernest coaxed. Jascha felt a little bad. Ernest’s night was so good up until now. But there was absolutely no way he was letting Ernest near him with those...shot things. Filled with weird bluish science juice that Victor had apparently engineered to help his cells heal quickly.

        “I won’t.” Jascha said firmly. “It looks like it will be exactly as bad as it seems.”

        “Jascha...Victor says it’ll, like, help.” Ernest’s voice was so patient. This was wrong. Jascha was supposed to be hiding from Victor’s science  with  Ernest. He didn’t like having Ernest and Victor on the same team. Even if he seemed happier.

        “I don’t believe him.” Jascha said, curling tighter. “It’s...blue. I don’t want to be injected with anything blue.”

        “He said that it’s the same stuff he used to, like, keep your cells alive before…You know.” Ernest hesitated. “Back then.”

        “You mean when I was dead,” Jascha added unhelpfully. “I don’t want to be given the chemicals he put in me when I was dead.”

        “But he did kinda bring you back with it,” Ernest urged. There was silence. “Babe, can you please open the door?”

        Jascha’s eyes got wide and he felt himself blush. That was a new term of endearment. “You called me babe,” he said softly.

        “I...guess I did,” Ernest laughed lightly. “Can you open the door?”

        “It’s...not locked.” Jascha conceded. Ernest opened the door, standing over him with the horrible blue-filled needles in hand. Ernest smiled sheepishly.

        “I guess I probably should have tried opening the door, huh?”

        Jascha held up his cast-bound hands. “I don’t have fine motor skills.”

        Ernest sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor in front of Jascha. He wanted to get closer to him; they’d been apart for a lot of the day. Jascha eyed the syringes skeptically. Two big ones, two small ones. All filled with the same stuff.

        “Would you rather let Victor do it?” Ernest asked gently.

        “No.” Jascha said flatly, still looking at the needles.

        “Are you gonna let me do it?”

        Jascha looked at him, meeting his eyes. Same warm brown. Even if he was suddenly on good terms with Victor, he was still Ernest. “Nope.” Jascha said firmly.

        “My dude,” Ernest smiled apologetically. “You need the shots.”

        “Why?” Jascha asked, trying his best to pick at a loose piece of plaster on one cast with his other, immobilized hand.

        “It’s gonna take, like, months of healing and therapy for you to recover the nerve stuff in your hands and eyes. Years maybe,” Ernest said gently. Jascha looked at him miserably. “Victor says this stuff will do that amount of healing in maybe a couple weeks.”

        “Weeks? How many weeks?” Jascha asked skeptically.

        “I don’t know but that’s way less than months,” Ernest gave him a smile. “I promise to be gentle. It’ll be over so fast.”

        “Are the two small ones…” Jascha pointed at them. Ernest grimaced.

        “Uh. Yeah. They’re for your eyes.” Ernest said apologetically.

        “Nope. No way. Never happening.” Jascha shook his head, panic rising in his chest. He looked desperately for a way out, but Ernest blocked the only exit and there were no windows.  

        “Hey, hey,” Ernest placed the box of needles on the counter, moving closer to him. “It’s okay. Do you want to go sit on the bed?”

        “You’ll leave the needles in here?” Jascha asked cautiously. He had boundaries, apparently. Things he wouldn’t even let Ernest do. Apparently those boundaries were injections in his eyes.

        “I...We can leave them here.” Ernest looked at the box. “For now.”

        Jascha nodded and stood. He went with Ernest back to the bed, sitting on what was now ‘his’ side of it. Ernest sat beside him. It was awkward, much like the first couple times they’d shared a bed back at the frat.

        “You’ll feel so much better after them,” Ernest finally broke their silence. “I know how badly your hands and eyes hurt.”

        Blinking was agony. And he did hate that unlike the shattering ache he felt in his legs during car rides, the ones in his hands were real. “...How fast would it fix my hands?”

        “He said you could have full range of motion after a few injections and a couple weeks.”

        “How many injections?” Jascha closed his eyes, leaning his head back.

        “He said every other day. For a week.” Ernest leaned his head against Jascha’s shoulder. “I know it sucks, but you’d feel better as soon as tomorrow.”

        “...What about the ones for my eyes?” Jascha asked miserably.

        “I was thinking you could take some valium or something and we’d do them before bed,” Ernest said quietly, placing his hand on Jascha’s thigh since they couldn’t exactly hold hands.

        “How fast can you do them?” Jascha asked, pulse racing in his chest.

        “Within a second. You wouldn’t even feel it until it was over.” Ernest smiled at him. “You could call your parents. If you’re better sooner.”

        Jascha slumped down so that his head was in Ernest’s lap. “I don’t want to.”

        “I promise the shots won’t be worse than the pain you’re already in.” Ernest bent down and kissed his cheek. “Can I go get them?”

        “Fine.” Jascha conceded. He resisted the urge to run as Ernest got up, returning with the syringes. He hugged one of the pillows like he was a little kid.

        “Arms or eyes first?” Ernest asked, aiming for levity but honestly just scaring Jascha more. He must have noticed, because he frowned. “It’ll be okay, dude.”

        “Eyes first.” Jascha said miserably. “Do I have to hold them open?”

        “I was gonna, uh...Use some medical tape,” Ernest said awkwardly. Jascha nodded.

        “Okay,” Jascha lay down, facing the ceiling. He still clutched the pillow.

        “Do you want me to, like, count down for you?” Ernest asked as he taped open Jascha’s eyes gently.

        “Nope. I don’t want to know anything.” Jascha said through his teeth.

        “Okay,” Ernest sounded nervous. Jascha hugged the pillow tighter, trying not to flinch every time Ernest moved near him. He saw something dark blue over his eyes; Ernest’s gloved hands. He bit the inside of his lip, tensing slightly as he felt something very cold fill the back of his right eye, and then his left. He felt Ernest pat his shoulder. “Good job,”

        “What?” Jascha sat up, blinking as Ernest took off the tape. Everything was cast in a vaguely bluish hue, and his eyes were cold, but he felt fine. “That’s it?”

        “Yup,” Ernest smiled. “Feel okay?”

        Jascha hesitated. His eyes tingled a little. “I think so,” he said quietly.

        “Can I do your arms now?” Ernest said gently. “They might hurt more.”

        “Why?” Jascha felt fear spike in him again. “Why would they hurt?”

        “Shh,” Ernest smoothed back his hair. “You don’t have as many pain receptors in the pupil of your eyes as you do in your skin, and the needle is bigger.”

        Jascha nodded, leaning against the warmth of Ernest’s hands, even if they were gloved. “Okay. That makes no sense, but I trust you.”

        “It’s biology, my dude,” Ernest said lightly. “Can I see your arms? Victor gave very specific instructions about how I was supposed to do this.”

        Jascha turned and held out his casts. Ernest turned back to the box, grabbing a rubber tourniquet from the kit and binding it tightly around Jascha’s bicep. He placed a finger between Jascha’s forearm and the plaster, up by the crook of his elbow, tapping slightly until he found a good vein. Jascha looked away as he readied the needle.

        “Fuck! Stop!” Jascha hissed, flinching. The solution was like ice until it started burning. He looked back at Ernest. “Why is it taking so long? Why does it hurt so much?”

        “I’m sorry,” Ernest said weakly. “I-I need to go slow. There’s a lot of it, and I don’t want to damage your vein.”

        “Please, stop!” Jascha shouted. He didn’t like feeling trapped, or like an experiment. He felt his heart race and his breathing get ragged. He caught Ernest’s eyes, wide and filled with sympathy. Jascha wanted to pull away from him. “Ernest! Stop!”

        “Okay,” Ernest said quickly as the needle emptied. He took it out with a swift motion, discarding it back into the box. “I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry.” Jascha panted as Ernest held his face, desperately trying to catch his breath. He felt like he had back at the lab; like a test subject.

        “Can you take off the rubber band?” Jascha asked quietly.

        “I...he said to leave it on for at least five minutes after the injection.” Ernest said apologetically. “It’s important that it goes to your hands first.”

        Jascha groaned, leaning his head on Ernest’s shoulder. “Do you have to do the other one?” He asked.

        “Yeah,” Ernest said hollowly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

        Jascha shook his head. “Please, just finish it.” Ernest kissed him quickly on the forehead but got to work. Jascha clamped his eyes shut as the second needle went in, followed by the slow freezing burn that filled his other arm. He held it together for longer, but it still got to be more than he could sit with.

        “Okay, okay, okay,” Jascha said quickly. “Ernest, make it stop!”         

        “Jascha, it’s okay,” Ernest said calmly, taking out the needle. They both jumped as someone knocked on the door.

        “Yeah?” Ernest called.

        “I heard shouting,” Alphonse said through the door. “Is everything okay?”

        Jascha reached for Ernest, uncaring about his dad. “Ernest, undo the rubber band.”

        “Uh, we’re okay, Dad!” Ernest called. “You can go to bed!”

        “Ernest!” Jascha hissed, the lack of blood flow to his arm was adding numbness and tingling to his list of unwelcome sensations.

        “Oh, fuck,” Ernest turned his attention back to Jascha, untying the rubber bands. Despite himself, Jascha gave an audible sigh of relief.

        “Ernest,” Alphonse said through the door, making them both startle again. “I...hate to ask, but William is directly under your room, so if you could refrain from performing...audible intimate activities-”

        Jascha had never seen Ernest move as fast as he saw him get from the bed to the door, throwing it open. Alphonse looked startled. “Dad. I promise you we are not having sex.” Jascha felt the overwhelming desire to go back into the bathroom and hide.

        “I…” Alphonse looked between Jascha and Ernest. Both were fully clothed, though Jascha was breathing like he’d run a mile. Alphonse’s eyes landed on the discarded needles. “Ernest, what on earth are you doing?”

        “It’s medicine. For Jascha’s hands.” Ernest said quickly. “Do you...actually think William could hear us? And thought it was sex?”

        Alphonse stared at the needles, and at Jascha. He forced himself to smile weakly. Alphonse eventually dragged his attention back to Ernest. “I don’t know. I would hope not, though…” He gestured to the needles. “This does not exactly look better.”

        “Dad, listen,” Ernest sighed. “Victor said we had to give him this stuff in order to help him get better, so we did. Because like. Victor is an idiot but he’s kind of a genius at biomedical engineering.” Alphonse nodded slowly.

        “It...is nearly one in the morning. Let’s just hope William was sound asleep,” Alphonse said carefully, starting to turn to leave. Jascha watched as Alphonse said something quietly to Ernest before he left, and Ernest was pale when he came back to the bed.

        “What is it?” Jascha asked nervously. “What’s wrong?”

        “Nothing,” Ernest rubbed his face, shaking out some tension. “He just, uh. Reminded me to use protection. If we did have sex. And to make sure William wasn’t, like, in his room trying to sleep.” Ernest collapsed back onto the bed. “This was such a weird day.”

        Jascha pressed himself up close to Ernest, nuzzling his face into the top of his head. “I don’t ever want to hear your dad talk about sex again,” Jascha whispered.

        “Me either,” Ernest said weakly. “There’s a reason I always went to Lizzie about that stuff. She was always more approachable about it.”

        “Ernest?” Jascha asked after a pause.

        “Hm?” Ernest rolled onto his side, draping an arm over Jascha’s chest.

        “Do you think my parents will still love me?” Jascha asked, barely audible. Ernest squeezed him, resting his head on Jascha’s shoulder.

        “Absolutely,” Ernest said lightly. “Everyone loves you. And it’s, like. The worst thing to lose a family member,” Ernest paused. “If you could get them back...I mean, you’d do anything.”

        Jascha nodded. He rested his cheek on Ernest’s head. “I hope they have Kroshka.”

        “Your violin?” Ernest asked gently.

        “Mhm,” Jascha said sadly. “I...doubt that she survived the accident. She was in the front with me, on the floor of the passengers seat.”

        “The front of your car got pretty fucked up, right?” Ernest asked gravely.

        “Ernest, I was crushed from the hips down,” Jascha found the words, but they tasted like bile. “I...That truck probably crushed her, too.”

        There was a heavy silence, and Jascha felt nothing other than the warmth of Ernest’s hand as it stroked light circles on his stomach. Jascha clenched his jaw. Saying it out loud was enough to bring back the ache in his legs, and picturing Kroshka blown to bits added a new layer of grief. He closed his eyes and wished he hadn’t said anything.

        “Maybe she’s okay,” Ernest whispered. “You said your dad, like, fixes instruments. Maybe he fixed her.” Another pause.

        “You called her a ‘her’” Jascha said quietly. “Most people call my violin an ‘it.’”

        “She matters to you,” Ernest said warmly. “If she matters to you, she matters to me.”

        Jascha pressed his face into Ernest’s curls, which smelled of cinnamon and the slightest hint of medical astringent. “I hope she’s okay,” Jascha said into his hair. He relaxed as Ernest held him tighter. “I love you,” Jascha whispered. “I’m happy you and Victor are better.”

        “I hope we’re better,” Ernest said with caution. “I’ll...believe it if it’s still true over the next few days. But for now I’m, like, really happy.” Jascha smiled. He could feel the relief in Ernest’s voice, and it inspired calm. He let Ernest lay across him, though he was careful not to let him pin down his legs. “Jascha, he hugged me,” Ernest said sleepily into his chest. “He hasn’t willingly touched me in over fifteen years.”

        “Good. It’s a sign he’s becoming normal,” Jascha said gently, happy for the distraction. “Only crazy people wouldn’t want to hug you. You give the best hugs.” Ernest laughed quietly.

        “If only you could hug yourself, Jascha,” he said as he fell asleep. “I love you so much.”


	40. Steps Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry takes a drive. Victor goes to therapy. Jascha gets his hands back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!! As always, thanks for reading and your comments and kudos always make our whole day!
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter are: nonspecific references to past self harm and light descriptions of surgery scars.

         Henry lay in Victor’s bed and sobbed. It didn’t feel real. Nothing did. The pillows didn’t smell pine or cedar wood. Nothing, or, Henry assumed, they smelled like him. They air wrapped thick around him like cotton sheets and refused to let him breathe. It only got more difficult when the cloth was thickened with his tears.

          _Henry Frankenstein._ That was what he always wanted. The thrum of it sang in his head and echoed around where his heart should be. He felt as hollow and stuffed with straw and beetles as a combat dummy. They skittered around his bones and drank in his blood as if it were the coolest water.

          _Henry Frankenstein._ So, he was home now. He had a home. And Alphonse wanted him. It seemed impossible to believe. ‘He’s like a son to me.’ Henry never had a father before. Not really. He wanted to shove his face into a pillow and scream.

         Every single emotion that it was possible for a human to feel raced through his head and refused to leave him alone. He needed to talk; to speak with someone or else those voices would tear his insides to ribbons. But who could he talk to? Ernest and Jascha were out of the question because they already did their mandatory comforting Henry time for today and he didn't even know where Lizzie and Justine were. William was twelve and Victor was...the issue. Alphonse it was.

         It took all of Henry’s might to drag himself down to Alphonse’s office. He was probably too busy or had already dealt with enough. If he thought about knocking, he wouldn’t do it, so he just moved the muscles in his hand to make the action happen. Maybe Alphonse wouldn’t answer and he could just go back up to the room and think about screaming some more.

         Of course Alphonse was in his office. When wasn’t he, except when Victor was having psychotic fits and tormenting the people who love him. Loved him. Henry sighed. Love him.

         “Hello, Henry,” Alphonse said, easy as the rain. “Is there something I could help you with?”

         “I was wondering,” Henry felt the words stick in the back of his throat and his chest. “If maybe we could talk about what’s happened...or what’s been happening?”

         “With Victor?” Alphonse dropped his voice.

         “Yeah, with Victor.” Henry tried to clear his throat, but the sticky tension stayed. “It’s just, he tried to talk to me and,” the tears already reentered his voice, this was going to be fucking great.

         “I know,” he placed a comforting hand on Henry’s shoulder. “I know it’s hard.”

         “I still love him, but I don’t trust him and I’m scared he’s going to hurt himself and I don’t know what to do. What if it’s all a trick?” he sobbed.

         “Henry,” Alphonse sighed, he was trying less and less hard to keep the emotion from his eyes. “I think maybe we should go for a drive.”

         “A drive?” Henry tried to gather himself.

         “Yeah, a drive. Don’t forget to grab a coat.”

         Henry didn’t really want to wear a coat. The air felt hot against his skin and his heart moved his warm blood through his veins. For once in his life, he wasn’t cold when he was upset. Amazing.

         Henry had always found it hard to concentrate in the car. He had to look at the passing trees or else he would become horribly car sick. The fact that he was talking about Victor didn’t help much either.

         “Henry, how much do you know about Caroline?” Alphonse asked, choosing his words carefully.

         “Umm, I know she’s a wonderful wife and mother. Uhh, somewhat more relevantly, I know you say that Victor takes after her, but I’ve never seen how.”

         Alphonse sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “What I’m about to tell you can not ever reach my boys, okay. None of them. Do I have your word?”

         “I promise,” Henry whispered. This was basically the nightmare scenario brought to life.

         Pain stretched into his voice. “Victor does take after Caroline in that the two are not particularly stable and Caroline had the same sort of...breakdowns that Victor has when she felt insecure.”

         “How did you deal with it?” Henry asked.

         “With much difficulty. She and Victor manifest very differently. She would-“ something in his voice changed. “Hurt herself and it was unfathomably difficult to get through to the woman I love.”

         “I’m sorry, Alphonse.” There weren’t really words for Henry to say.

         “I actually think you can imagine it.” Alphonse gave a sad half smile and continued. “It hurt me so much to see her suffer. I guess the first thing I did was convince her that was true. We had conversations and set boundaries and made contingency plans. Have you and Victor done that yet?”

         “No,” Henry’s voice was so small it barely filled the car.

         “That will probably help a lot. Bad things still happened, but we were in it together and she knew she always had my support.”

         “Did you ever think about leaving?” Henry felt guilty for asking the question as soon as he saw Alphonse’s face twist in pain.

         “I...did. Especially after the first time. I was so afraid, Henry. I love her with all my heart and the fear was worth it because we figured out how to manage it.” Alphonse leaned his head against his window as they sat at a stoplight. “We had a really good life and sometimes it was hard to imagine it when we were young, but somehow, we both made it.”

         “I think I still love Victor,” Henry whispered.

         “I thought you might.” A small smile crept across Alphonse’s face. “You know him better than anyone other than me or Caroline. There is so much about him worth loving. I wish I could have let him know before…”

         “It’s not your fault.” Henry wished he could reach out and touch him, but he was driving a car. “You did your best. That’s what matters.”

         “I did try, but I tried and failed. I think Caroline would be ashamed of me for not taking better care of our son.”

         “I think she would understand. She knows exactly how hard it is and how difficult it would be to return to normal.” Henry touched Alphonse’s shoulder and he relaxed into his touch.

         “There’s no such thing as normal, not with anyone and certainly not with Victor,” the strength in Alphonse’s voice began to return. “But normal is different from good. You two will have a wonderful life. It’s possible for you two to have your careers and kids and anything you could dream of.”

         “I don’t want to name them Eurydice and Winston. I don’t know where he pulled those from.” Henry smiled as Alphonse laughed.

         “I’m sure you’ll choose wonderful names-if that’s the route you want to go,” Alphonse quickly corrected himself. “You need to do what’s right for you, not what’s right for anyone else. You will always have us, even if you decide not to stay with Victor.”

         “So he wasn’t lying then,” Henry shook his head. “He said _Henry Frankenstein._ Did he really mean it?” Now his voice broke. “I never thought I could have your name.”

         Alphonse pulled into an empty parking lot and wrapped Henry in his arms. He wept quietly into his chest. “I love you, Henry.” He whispered. “I’ve always loved you as if you were one of my own. You can always return to us, no matter what.” Henry traced his fingers around the face of his watch and Alphonse noticed. “So that you may always know when to return home. I meant it, Henry. I know your problems are far from over, but you’ll always be safe with me.”

         Alphonse let him cry out the rest of his tears in comfortable silence. They were almost back to the house before he spoke again. “Do you know what you’re going to do?” Alphonse asked.

         “I do. I want him to stay.” Henry was somewhat surprised at the surety of his voice. “We need to work through a lot, but I want to work through it with him.”

         Alphonse nodded and smiled, despite himself. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. Are you going to talk to him now?”

         “I am,” Henry swallowed the lump in the back of his throat.

         “He’ll probably be in the study. I’ll give you all the privacy you need.”

         “Thank you, Alphonse.” Henry smiled a true smile, filled with sunlight. “I’m glad you found me.”

         “I’m glad I found you too.”

         Henry stood in front of the study door for a solid five minutes before he did anything about it. Parallels were good and simple. They were an easy way to tell if something significant was happening in a poem. The structure and form gave him comfort and guided him to his overall conclusion, but he was still nervous. He took a step forward, then back, then forward again before he willed himself to knock on the door.

         “Victor, it’s Henry. Can we talk?” He was surprised that his voice held so steadily. The door opened immediately and Victor’s bloodshot eyes started back at him. “I’ve made up my mind,” Henry took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I want you to stay, but we really need to talk and set boundaries.”

         “You still want me?” Victor’s voice broke over his head like a wave.

         “Victor, I love you and we can figure this out. We can have a good life together.” Henry watched as Victor stretched out his arm, but snatched it back at if he had been burnt. “Can I hug you, Victor, please? I’ve missed you so much.”

         Henry sank into Victor’s arms and the two of them wept. The smell of pine and cedar wood settling around Henry’s shoulders like an old sweater as he pressed his nose into Victor’s hair. It was clean and soft.

         “Do you want to talk now?” Henry asked.

         Victor nodded. “I really, really do.”

         They made their way up to Victor’s room.“Where do we start?” Henry asked himself, head spinning at the task in front of him. “Okay, we need to make a plan. I need a way to know if something is going to happen again so I can help you,” he explained as he ran his fingers through Victor’s hair. “I don’t think we need to do this part now, but I want us to come up with a list of things that help tether us to reality.”

         “You too?” Victor asked, voice barely audible through Henry’s shirt.

         “Me too,” Henry sighed. “I haven’t exactly been well either.” He felt Victor’s arms tighten around his waist. It felt weird to touch Victor again, but a great burden had been lifted from his chest. He was surprised that he didn’t feel afraid. He could choose to trust Victor. He wasn’t going to ask him to do anything terrible. “I think maybe we should think of a word we can use when we think we’re going to be in trouble.”

         Victor nodded against Henry’s heart. “Percival,” he said after a moment of contemplation.

         “Perfect, we’ll use Percival. We can work more details out as we go, I think. There’s one other thing.” After a day of talking freely, words started to stick in his chest. “Never call me a fag ever again.” The word tasted bitter, like chalk stuck underneath his tongue.

         “I promise, never again.”

         “I’m choosing to trust you.” Henry let his attention fall to the movement of Victor’s chest as he breathed and the warmth of his breath through his shirt. “I think we can have a happy life together, we just need to put in the work.”

         “I need to put in the work.” Victor corrected. “You’ve always done it, even when no one asked you to.”

         “I believe in you,” Henry whispered into Victor’s hair.

         “I will do anything for you,” Victor nuzzled his face in Henry’s side.

         “Love me?” He asked.

         “I always have.”

 

* * *

 

         Henry was warm. Warm and solid and real beneath Victor’s ear, under his hands, and it felt like every time before but also entirely new. Entirely different. He wasn’t sure how, though he had some confidence as to the why.

         Percival. Boundaries. Tethering to reality. Victor listened with an intensity he had previously only believed could be devoted to scientific pursuits. Rather than overwhelming, however, the statements fell soft and heavy on his willing ears. It was doable. He could manage this new challenge certainly and Henry could manage anything. Together they could make this work. Victor wasn’t sure if he was sure of it because it was sure or because he had latched onto some unrealistic hope but nevertheless, he allowed his thoughts to settle, downy and thick against the basin of his brain, the constant mania reduced to a slow swirl by the feeling of skin on his own. There was time for that later. Time for doubt and panic and action. For now, well. He’d missed Henry more than he could fathom. He’d missed him so much it was impossible. And so, as they lay in the bed they’d occupied so many years and realities before, Victor did something he never did. He stopped. As if by an otherworldly force or perhaps just by the sapping sweetness of Henry’s hands in his hair, heart against his ear, legs tangled in his own. Stopped thinking and overthinking. Stopped running one muddled message into the other. Stopped worrying about tomorrow and the next day and the past and the future and himself.

         Victor stopped and revealed in the blissful calm.

         What else mattered in this moment except Henry? Acting entirely on instinct and muscle memory, Victor maneuvered himself off Henry’s chest and urged the other to lay down. As soon as Henry was settled, Victor wrapped himself tightly around the other, letting his cheek rest in the crook of Henry’s neck and his stomach press along the length of his back.

         He felt rather than heard Henry laugh. “You’re too small to be the big spoon,” he said quietly.

         “Shh,” Victor whispered in return, “let me love you.” His frame was beginning to surrender to the sluggish pull of exhaustion but he pushed it off as well as he could. Not yet. Not until Henry was asleep. Barely resisting the urge to completely koala the other man, Victor buried his face entirely into Henry and made every attempt imaginable to transfer each burst of relief, joy, and love he felt into the other. He wasn’t sure he was entirely successful but Henry didn’t pull away even as the hallway light outside flickered off and, behind the thin walls, the rest of the household went to sleep.

         “You’re mumbling.” Henry finally broke the blissful silence after a long while or maybe a short while. His voice was soft with longing for sleep.

         “Am I?” Victor asked hazily. “What am I saying?”

         “That you love me.” Henry said. “‘How sincerely do I love you.' Just that, over and over. That and how wonderful I am.”

         “Hm.” Victor curled so that his one knee rested between Henry’s. “I sound pretty smart.” He said languidly. “You should listen to me.”

         Henry laughed softly. Victor was too tired to tell if it was self-deprecating or not. “You can go to sleep now.” Henry whispered as he shifted around to face Victor.

         “No,” Victor protested childishly, “you first.”

         He was gone from the world before Henry had time to respond.

 

         Victor was up again at seven am, dragging himself with supreme difficulty from the addictive feeling of Henry’s arms around his. He allowed himself only a minute to look over the other, searching his still form for signs of distress or discomfort, but, finding none, was convinced to move on.

         He showered, dressed, made an effort to do something with his hair before realizing that he had no idea what to do except brush it, fueled the entire time by a weirdly calm determination. The effort he’d made seemed to yield a difference. When Victor looked in the mirror, he looked far less like the greasy weasel Justine had said he was just a night before. Or, well, he looked less greasy anyway. The bags beneath his eyes had grown less dark as well, shallow and more a reflection of a few sleepless nights than their usual ‘slow descent into madness’ apparel.

         The bandage holding together his broken nose, however, was still a mark on his conscience and facade. He was sure by now that it would heal crooked and could only be grateful that he cared so little for his physical appearance that it wouldn’t be a great bother. The cheeks, however...Victor delicately poked the hallows within them and grimaced. They had gotten deeper. A familiar shot of panic wiggled through his spine before reality caught up to him. He’d eaten nothing but toast and applesauce this last week. He just needed to eat more. That was all. No great crisis to be had there.

         He finished straightening his shirt collar, collected his satchel, and made his way down to the kitchen. Seven forty-five. With the luxury of time on his side, Victor started the coffee machine and pulled a yogurt from the fridge.

         “Victor?” A voice called hesitantly.

         “Kitchen.” Victor answered in the same quiet yell.

         As his father rounded the corner, Victor stood and collected his bag. “Are we supposed to go now?”

         “I…” His dad looked at him strangely. “I was actually going to come get you and tell you that you’re off the hook for the day.”

         “Off?” Victor paused. “I thought I was supposed to be going six times a week now.”

         “You are.” His dad confirmed as he wandered over to the bubbling coffee machine. “But given the stress of last night...and since I wasn’t entirely sure how things went with Henry…” He glanced to Victor, letting his eyes stray over the ironed button down and clean hair. “I’m guessing it went well though?”

         Victor nodded, a small smile working its way onto his face. “He still wants me.” He said, almost as if in disbelief. “And we started talking about ways to avoid a situation like this again. Signs and things to do to help each other. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

         “You do.” His dad pulled a mug from the cupboard and began to pour himself a drink. “I’m very glad to hear that things are beginning to mend between you two.”

         Victor hummed his agreement. Something felt off in the kitchen space, dripping down the walls like slime and coating the flooring. Victor swallowed the ready desire to run. “I should apologize to you too.” He put the yogurt aside and turned his attention to his father forcefully. “I’ve been horrible these last few days and...I never really said thank you for putting up with it. Or driving me to the hospital. Sorry for all those terrible things I said to you…”

         “It’s alright.” His dad said quickly. He flashed a slight smile. “Most of them were true anyway.”

         As he drifted over to begin making a black coffee, Victor struggled to force his brain back to competent speech. All he could muster in the end, however, was a very passionate, unfortunately loud, “What?!”

         It was the first time Victor had ever seen his father startle and that just added to the wrongness of the whole affair. Once recovered, his dad blinked back at him with wide eyes. “Victor,” he hissed, “Volume. You’re going to wake the whole house.”

         “Sorry, sorry,” Victor said absently, “just...I...what?”

         “I said,” vivid remorse flickered over his dad’s face, “that you were right in what you said to me. Your mother and I...well, just I.I _did_ set you up for failure with all those childhood rules and special regulations. I made you feel different and alienated when I had no proper reason to be so cruel. And now, well...I should have been there for you, Victor. More than I was. I should have seen this coming.”

         “...You’re fucking with me, right?”

         “Language.” His dad said on instinct then frowned. “And no I wasn’t-”

         “Because, like, this is all on me.” Victor said firmly. “I was a bastard. The reason you never saw this coming is because I purposefully hid it from you and kept you out of my life-”

         “-Because I didn’t offer my support well enough.” His dad cut him off. “I should have-”

         “No, _I_ should have. I’m twenty-three, I should have been able to handle it-”

         “But if I’d reached out more-”

         “I would have pushed you away-”

         “And I could have checked in with you and Henry. After Ingolstadt, I should have monitored that relationship more, given you better advice, given you more time to recover.” His father rushed on. “What happened-”

         “Wasn’t your fault.” Victor interjected finally, fighting the waves of violent oddness and the diluted fear of seeing one’s parent seemingly crumble before your eyes. Not that Victor hadn’t seen it before but this time was different. This time he wasn’t in the midst of breaking down himself.

         Unsure exactly what to do, Victor took a hesitant step forward and hugged his dad tightly. “Absolutely none of this was your fault.”

         His dad stood stock for a second before relaxing in resignation. He stroked Victor’s hair lightly as he sighed. “I’m still sorry.”

         “Don’t be.” Victor warned. “I’m the center of the shitstorm here.”

         “Yes.” A touch of amusement had crept into his father’s voice. “But I raised this shitstorm. A touch of the responsibility rests with me.”

         “Bullshit.” Victor muttered. He paused. “You just swore.”

         “I did not-”

         “Holy fuck, wait, I just got you to swear in, like, normal conversation.”

         “I was merely paraphrasing-”

         “I’ve just cracked the facade of the Alphonse Frankenstein!”

         Hands pushed against his shoulders, bringing Victor back into his dad’s line of sight. The other regarded him seriously through his lawyer mask even while a slight smile fought to grace his lips. “Well.” He said slyly. “Maybe you have. But fuck knows the others will never believe you.”

         Victor watched, frozen, as his father returned to his coffee, took up the newspaper, and sat at the kitchen table. He blinked a few times. “Holy hell, you’re terrible!”

         “Volume.” His dad said casually.

         “No, you know what, I take it back, I take it all back! You _do_ owe me that apology for giving me the greatest gift of my life then ripping it away!” Victor aimed a dramatic glare at his dad. “You’re a horrible, horrible person.”

         If it was possible for Alphonse Frankenstein to snicker, he would be doing it into his coffee. “Go on.” He waved a hand. “Go finish your breakfast.”

         Victor scowled as he scooped the yogurt back up. “You’ll still drive me to therapy, right? I want to talk to Dr. Konig about some stuff today. Mainly, like, work I can do for myself outside of outpatient.”

         His dad fumbled the coffee for a moment before staring at him, dumbstruck. “Who are you and what have you done with my son?”

         “How do you mean?”

         “Bathed, clean, nice shirt, eating breakfast, asking for extra therapy?” His dad shook his head “You’re not even drinking coffee! Did Ernest perform a lobotomy on you or something?”

         Victor shrugged. “Might have. We were in that lab a long time.” He grinned and took a spoonful of yogurt. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m still drinking the coffee.”

         His dad frowned. His eyes flitted to the yogurt. “Victor,” he sighed, his usual sternness returning in a flood and banishing the pervading wrong from the room, “please tell me you didn’t mix coffee into your yogurt.”

         “Maximum efficiency!” Victor cried.

         “Throw it out.”

         “Never!” Victor tipped the cup back and drank the disgusting sludge of watery yogurt/coffee in one go. He checked the clock. “I’m going to go grab my coat and say goodbye to Henry. Meet you at the car?”

         “Sure.” His dad answered, looking vaguely sick.

         As Victor began to the door, he stopped, debating with himself for a second the implications. “Love you.” He eventually decided to say.

         His dad offered him a real smile. “Love you too.”

         Victor returned the smile with giddy relief and raced for the stairs. He entered the room quietly to see Henry still asleep in bed. Victor crept to the closet and pulled out a coat and some gloves before crossing over to him. “Love you always.” He whispered.

         The bad feeling was returning now that the night and Henry’s warmth were gone, anxiety and fear and paranoia and panic in a dull rush, but Victor had made up his mind that this time around. He wasn’t going to hold anything back from Konig, even for the sake of his pride. How much of that did he have left anyway? Better to just let it all go for now.

         He closed the door softly and went to meet his dad in the car.

 

* * *

 

         It was a dream about Juilliard. Back when his biggest problem was his best friend’s crazy boyfriend making her also go crazy. Ballerinas. They were all completely nuts. He felt so vindicated at his decision to quit at sixteen when he saw the actual, harcore dancers. Jascha still wasn’t sure why they refused to eat normal food.

         Swan Lake. He was, thankfully, not dancing but rather playing the violin solos as he had when he was a teenager. He smiled, seeing his mother and father seated in the from of the auditorium. His mother looked so happy. Even his father, whose face rarely betrayed any emotion of any kind, smiled at him.

         “Jascha!” The scene melted. He tried to sit up, but his hands met something wet and his wrists screamed in agony. He opened his eyes, and was met with the whites of his on wrist bones. He looked to the audience; his mother was collapsed on the ground, wailing his name. His father was crouched over her, face broken with emotion. There was blood everywhere.

         “Jascha!” A man’s voice, but without his father’s heavy Russian accent. “Jascha, wake up!” Jascha looked around; his parents were the only two in the audience.

         “Is he okay?” A kid’s voice. There were no kids anywhere to be seen.

         “Victor, what’s going-” Wait a minute. Victor isn’t supposed to be here.

         “I’m awake,” Jascha said, sitting up quickly. He looked around. He was in the living room, and had been laying on the couch. Victor, William, and Henry were all looking at him. But not Ernest. Which was weird, since he remembered having been watching a movie with him. It was also weird that somehow two pm had become four pm. Jascha made a mental note that he needed to stop taking naps. “Where’s Ernest?” Jascha asked blearily.

         “Here,” Victor handed him a little piece of paper. “He left this on the coffee table.” ‘ _Gone running, back soon - E_.’ Jascha nodded. He jumped as William sat beside him on the couch, resting his head on his shoulder.

         “...Why are you all in here?” Jascha asked suspiciously. He noticed that Victor was holding a little plastic bag. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be mortified about Victor being near him, but he still had the instinct to run.

         “I’m here to check your eyes and hands,” Victor said, almost gently. “And then you started talking in, uh, Slavic-”

         “It was Lithuanian,” Henry added helpfully.

         “Lithuanian, and I couldn’t get you to wake up,” Victor said flatly. “But, now you’re awake. Which is great, since I need to look at your eyes.”

         “Can Ernest do it when he comes back?” Jascha asked, keeping fear out of his voice as best he could. Henry was still a little bit on edge, and he didn’t want to rock that boat.

         “Ernest doesn’t have a degree in biochemistry nor does he understand neurosurgery,” Victor said with slightly less frigidity than normal. “I need to check and make sure the nerves are healing adequately. You got the shots last night?”

         “Yes,” Jascha said carefully. “...You aren’t here to give me more of them, right?”

         “Not today,” Victor said with a slight smirk. “I’m guessing you didn’t like them?”

         Jascha shook his head.

         “Yeah, I’m not surprised. They weren’t really designed to be administered in conscious subj-” Victor caught Henry glaring at him. “...people, so I didn’t design the solution with pain tolerance in mind. Looks like it’s working well though, from here.”

         “It is?” Jascha tilted his head slightly; a habit he’d been told he picked up from Ernest.

         “Your eyes are clear,” Henry said with a smile. Jascha hadn’t even noticed that his vision was no longer blurry. “And the, uh, bloodshot-ness is gone.”

         “Yup,” Victor grimaced slightly. “Nothing but hazel.”

         “What about my hands?” Jascha asked, looking down at his casts.

         “That’s why I’m here,” Victor lifted the plastic bag, which to Jascha’s relief was just a normal CVS bag. “I’m gonna check you out, but I think we can probably shift you to wrist braces rather than full plaster casts.”

         “That sounds more comfortable,” Jascha said hesitantly. It did sound better, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to see his wrists yet. They still hurt.

         “Cool. Is that your medical consent?” Victor asked lightly.

         “For what?” Jascha asked, confused.

         “Me messing with your hands. Ernest made me agree to get your consent before I touched you, medically or otherwise.” Victor looked bored. “Apparently that’s a thing doctors are supposed to do before each procedure.”

         “And people. Just in life,” Henry added, looking at Victor firmly. “Consent is good.”

         “Consent is good,” Victor repeated. He sighed. “Can I look at and touch your hands and face?” Victor asked, sounding a bit like he’d rehearsed it from a script. It took Jascha aback.

         “Um, sure?” Jascha said skeptically. “When did Ernest leave? Will he be back soon?”

         “He left maybe half an hour ago,” Victor said as he shooed William away, taking his seat beside Jascha. Jascha flinched despite himself as Victor touched his arm.

         “William, you and Henry should go,” Jascha said nervously, remembering how bad his scars looked the first time he’d been operated on by Victor.

         “Why?” William said, looking slightly hurt.

         “I think Jascha might not want us to see his wrists yet,” Henry said gently. “C’mon, let’s go read. Or you can show me more of your drawings.” William nodded happily, and left with Henry. Silence hung in the air, thick as velvet. That is, until Victor took out what looked like bolt cutters and started snapping through the plaster casts.

         They came off in satisfying chunks, and Jascha felt an immediate, urgent desire to scratch at the skin of his arms and wrists. Everything itched or stung or was some combination of the two, and his sole fantasy as he fell asleep the night before was to tear open the casts and scratch until the itch went away. He forced himself to resist, although having Victor’s fingers peeling off the inside layer of compression bandage made it borderline unbearable. He bit his lip.

         “...Are you okay?” Victor asked. Jascha noticed he was being stared at.

         “Yup,” he said quickly. “Why?”

         “You have a very expressive face,” Victor’s voice was strange. He smirked slightly.

         “What does that mean?” Jascha felt uncomfortable under his gaze.

         “Honestly?” Victor asked. Jascha nodded. “You were kinda making a sex face. Are you okay? Something on your mind?”

         Jascha felt himself turn bright pink. “...I was trying to resist the urge to scratch my wrists. They itch. A lot.” Jascha frowned.

         “I can clean them for you,” Victor said, peeling off the final layer of lightweight plastic surgical bandage from his skin. Jascha looked at his wrists. His stomach turned and he immediately regretting looking. The wounds were deep, and still red. Dried blood and sticky lymph were congealed along his skin and the surgical bandage.

         “I...would like that,” Jascha said tentatively. “Can Ernest do it?”

         “Ernest is still out doing sports things,” Victor turned his attention back to the wounds, pulling sterile gloves on and touching the lines lightly. “Does this hurt?”

         “A little,” Jascha confessed. “Mostly they itch.”

         “That’s because they’re healing,” Victor said, nearly reassuringly. “The injections Ernest gave you stimulate rapid cell repair, so you’ll feel the healing process much more quickly and intensely.” When he looked back to Jascha, his face was slightly sympathetic. “It’s gonna itch like hell, basically. And you can’t scratch.”

         “I’m going to die,” Jascha said miserably.

         “Nah,” Victor said idly. “Can you try flexing your fingers?”

         Jascha looked back at his hands. He’d been so revolted by the fresh surgical incisions that he’d forgotten to look at his hands. He held one in front of his face. They were his. His long, delicate fingers. His stomach twisted slightly as he saw the old dirt and blood that were still embedded under his fingernails, but other than that they were perfect. He flexed his fingers, feeling the stiff joints stick slightly in protest. The only pain was in the muscles of his wrists; his actual digits felt fine.

         He curled the fingers of his left hand into the shape he’d have them in were a violin in his hands. They found their positions easily, obeying his memories much more readily than his old hands even if the joints were still stiff and underused. He played a phantom scale, reveling in the quickness that he was already recovering.

         “How do they feel?” Victor asked gently. Jascha’s attention snapped back to him.

         “Good,” Jascha said quickly. “My wrists hurt.”

         “Yeah, that’s because of all the broken bones. And muscle. And tendons.” Victor listed. “But they’ll heal up to a point where you can start using your hands normally again in like a week or two. If you let Ernest give you the shots.” Victor added.

         “The shots hurt a lot,” Jascha protested weakly. Victor raised an eyebrow. “I...will do it.”

         “Cool. Can I, uh. Clean your wrists?” Victor asked awkwardly. Jascha considered it for a moment. It would be the most touch he’d ever accepted from Victor, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted it yet. Even if Victor was making amends, it takes more than Ernest’s tentative forgiveness to fix the trauma of having come back to life only to be coerced and mangled by Victor. Hell, he was still adjusting to letting Henry touch him. And he liked Henry.

         “I think I want Ernest to do it,” Jascha said quietly. “I don’t mind waiting for him to come back.” He felt slightly guilty as disappointment flashed across Victor’s features. “I’m sorry.”

         “It’s fine,” Victor said, though Jascha could see his resistance. They both looked up as they heard the front door close, and minutes later Ernest appeared, still winded and his cheeks tinged pink from the cold. Jascha stood up, smiling with relief.

         “Hey,” Ernest said between breaths, beaming at Jascha. “Jascha, no!” Jascha was about to hug him when he held up his hands and Victor grabbed the back of his shirt. The second he stopped moving, Victor let go, catching a look from Ernest.

         “What?” Jascha frowned, startled and nervous. “What did I do?”

         “Nothing,” Ernest smiled, placing his freezing hands on the sides of Jascha’s face. “You’re good. You just shouldn’t touch anything that isn’t sterile while your hands are unbandaged.” Ernest patted his shoulder.

         “Oh,” Jascha nodded. He guessed that made sense. He felt like he’d ignored that rule the first time he had open wounds, though, and everything had been fine.

         “Ernest, can you clean his incisions?” Victor asked, standing. “Once you, you know. Shower and stuff.” Victor picked up the CVS bag and held it out to him. “Here are the braces.”

         “Cool,” Ernest nodded, taking the bag. “He can switch to these so soon?”

         “I looked at the joints. They look stable enough to be secure in just the braces and the compression bandages, but he’ll need to be very careful about over exerting the muscles or jostling the bones,” Victor turned back to Jascha. “Basically just pretend your hands don’t work.”

         “My hands don’t work,” Jascha repeated. “Okay. I can do that. Can I play the piano?”

         “That falls in the category of hands that work.” Victor said flatly. “So no.”

         “But if my hands worked I’d play the violin,” Jascha said simply.

         “Jascha, it’s more about, like, your bones, and less about what you’d do emotionally.” Ernest said with a smile. “You can do all that stuff in a little bit.”

         “Am I allowed to hold books yet?” Jascha asked, brow furrowed slightly in irritation.

         “You can watch TV and cuddle with my brother,” Victor instructed, and Jascha thought he looked a little bit odd when he mentioned cuddling with Ernest. “And you can use your hands for necessities, like food and-”

         “Reading and practicing music are necessities,” Jascha added quickly.

         “Not medically,” Victor crossed his arms. “Stop being difficult. I’m trying to help you get better as quickly and effectively as I can.”

         There was a long pause. Ernest shifted awkwardly on his feet. “Jascha, do you want to go out and do something fun?” He finally said.

         “Where would we go?” Jascha pulled his gaze from Victor, who he’d noticed was actually clean and wearing an ironed shirt.

         “Well,” Ernest smiled. “We have a little more than a week until Christmas, and I have to get gifts for everyone. Want to help?” Jascha cocked his head.

         “You do gifts at Christmas?” Jascha asked. “I thought it was just for food and partying.”

         “What…?” Ernest looked confused.

         “You were raised by communists,” Victor said, more of a question than a statement.

         “No,” Jascha said defensively. “...I’ve never been in the U.S for Christmas. And my dad’s family grew up in Soviet Russia.”

         “But your mom is American,” Ernest said, dumbfounded.

         “Yes. And she got me presents whenever she felt like it,” Jascha said with a nod. He rubbed the back of his head. “I...usually just wanted new music or CDs. Or for my dad to take me with him to his workshop. I didn’t really like toys as much as the other kids.” Jascha shoved his hair out of his face, and was reminded of something he’d thought about earlier. “Oh!”

         “Yeah?” Ernest asked.

         “I need a hair cut,” Jascha said. “My hair is too long.”

         “No it isn’t,” Ernest said with a slight frown. “I like it.”

         “I know,” Jascha said apologetically. “But I need it to look the same as, uh…” He was about to say ‘the same as when I died,’ but he still didn’t like saying that kind of thing out loud.

         “The same as when I got you,” Victor added helpfully. Jascha kind of glared at him, but he couldn’t put his heart into it. Victor was right, after all.

         “But it’s so nice now,” Ernest had allowed the slightest hint of a whine to enter his voice. “Why do you need to change it?”

         “I want to see my parents again,” Jascha was about to reach out and touch Ernest’s face before he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to. “And they last saw me with shorter hair.”

         “How much shorter?” Ernest asked, still sort of pouting. It would be cute if it wasn’t absolute torture for Jascha to make him even slightly sad.

         “One second,” Jascha said, and he jogged out of the room. He passed Henry and William, who were reading in the music room.

         “Jascha, everything okay?” Henry asked.

         “Yup. I’m just grabbing an old picture of me so that I can get a haircut.” Jascha said as he ran up the stairs. He got into Ernest’s room, which was now kept unlocked, and dug around in his backpack. Only after he’d finished grabbing the stolen library CD of his last concert did he remember that using his hands was forbidden. He decided that this counted as a necessity and that it was allowed because Ernest was going to clean the wounds soon anyways.

         Jascha made it downstairs and back to the living room, shoving the CD into Ernest’s chest. “This picture was taken the week before I died,” Jascha said quickly. He felt the word ‘died’ leave a bad taste in his mouth, and judging by the look on Victor and Ernests’ faces they could tell.

         “You weren’t supposed to use your hands,” Victor said flatly.

         “It was a necessity,” Jascha said, still trying to get the taste out of his mouth.

         “No it wasn’t.”

         “Jascha, you can’t,” Ernest said miserably.

         “Can’t what?”  


         “Cut your hair,” Ernest frowned. “It’s so much shorter in this picture.”

         “It’s still longer than Victor’s,” Jascha said, mirroring Ernest’s frown. He’d never met any resistance from him before, and it felt bad. “See? It’s just past my chin and it still would get in my face,” Jascha pointed at the picture. “It was actually more annoying then than now. I used to use bobby pins to keep it out of my eyes while I practiced.”

         “Then why cut it?” Ernest whined. “It’s so soft and silky.”

         “It will still be soft and silky,” Jascha cocked his head slightly, and worried lined his face. “Will you no longer be attracted to me if my hair is shorter?”

         “No, I’ll always be into you,” Ernest said quietly, cheeks tinged pick as he glanced at Victor. “I just...really like your hair.”

         “What’s up?” Henry appeared in the doorway. “I heard arguing, is everything okay?”

         “Henry! Can you help explain to Jascha why he should keep his hair long?” Ernest said quickly, taking a step towards Henry. Henry glanced to Jascha.

         “Does Jascha want to cut his hair?” Henry asked gently.

         “Yes,” Jascha said.

         “Then he should do whatever he wants,” Henry said, looking back to Ernest and Victor. “Can I see the new hair cut you want to get?” Henry asked Jascha.

         “Mhm,” Jascha took the CD from Ernest and handed it to Henry, pointing at the picture of him on the inside cover. “This.”

         “Oh, I think it’s cute!” Henry smiled. “It’s not too much shorter, Ernest.”

         “It’s fine,” Ernest said with a sigh. “If you want to do it, I’ll support you,” he said to Jascha. Jascha gave him an apologetic look.

         “I do want to,” he said gently. He closed his eyes as Ernest reached up and ran his fingers through his hair, leaning into the touch slightly.

         “Okay. Come upstairs with me so I can shower and clean up your wrists,” Ernest finally smiled at him again. Jascha felt infinitely better. “Then I’ll drive you to get a haircut.”

 


	41. A Day Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry goes on a double date. Victor bonds with Ernest. Jascha gets a blowjob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!! Thank you so much for sticking with us! It means a ton and we always enjoy hearing what you have to say!
> 
> Now for something different, for the first time in 41 chapters, no trigger warnings apply to this update! :D Enjoy!!

        “What on earth is on your chest?” Victor asked once he was alone with Henry.

        “What do you mean?” He spun himself in a little circle trying to find whatever was wrong with him. “Oh! William made me a badge. Honestly, I thought you were kidding.” Henry let his fingers rest over the gold construction paper and craft ribbon that was pinned to his sweater. In the center, William designed a little sigil with a soccer ball, a book, a beaker, and fire and around the edge he wrote their names.

        “You really don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to,” Victor sighed, but he smiled too. That boy really knew what made Henry tick.

        “Nonsense! I’m going to wear it every day, forever, and there's nothing you can do to stop me.” Henry stuck his nose in the air and placed his hand over his heart.

        “Oh, trust me, I don’t want to.” It felt good to see Victor smile again. He leaned against the kitchen counter and made eye contact with Henry. The dark brown of his eyes seemed warm like mead and Henry felt himself blush.

        “So, how was therapy?” he asked.

        “You know, it went well. It feels a lot better now that I’m able to talk to someone...you know,” he waved his arms vaguely. “He’s still Konig so he’s still a little bit...off putting.”

        “Like a wizard?”

        “Exactly like a wizard, but yeah. I think it went well. Do you have plans for the day?”

        “Well, I was just going to chill until the evening, but I think Ernest might need an emotional support person if Jascha is going to cut his hair.” Henry laughed. “He’s too funny.”

        “Hey, if I remember correctly, you were distraught the first time I cut my hair really short.” Victor walked over to his and leaned his elbow on his shoulder.

        “You got a fucking buzzcut! You looked like you, Victor Endymion Frankenstein, were about to waltz into the American Army. It was distressing,” Henry had to make himself smaller so Victor didn’t accidentally overextend his arm.

        “It’s not my fault you have extremely high hair standards.” Victor scoffed. Henry threw back his head and let his hair fall across his eyes in the way he knew Victor liked.

        “It’s because my hair is perfect, all the time.”

        "Can I kiss you?” Victor asked, standing on his tiptoes.

        “Yes.”

        Victor pressed a kiss to Henry’s hair and he was not expecting it at all. Usually when Victor asked, it was a kiss on the lips or somewhere else. Hair kissing just had kinda been par for their course, even when they were little.

        “Anyway, you were telling me about your plans?”

        “Oh, yes, yes, yes,” Henry bounced on the balls of his feet. “I was thinking after I helped Ernest with the situation, maybe we could go out for cupcakes. You know, the four of us.”

        “The four of us,” Victor repeated. Henry couldn’t quite tell what was sitting behind his voice, but it was something.

        “Yeah, like a double date or something,” Henry tried to give his best confident smile, but his surety was waning. “It could be fun. I’ve wanted to go to that new place for like...ever.”

        “A double date...with Ernest?”

        Henry’s heart fell. “I totally get it if you guys aren’t ready for that yet. I had just been thinking...I haven’t even asked them yet...So, I don’t know…”

        “No, I think it sounds like fun.” Victor smiled and held Henry’s hand. “We can make fun of how lovey-dovey they are.”

        “My dearest Victor, I really need you to look in a mirror because you are the single most affectionate person I have met in my entire life.”

        “Only to you,” Victor argued as he ran his thumb over Henry’s knuckles.

        “I’m the only person you need to be affectionate towards,” Henry laughed and nuzzled his face into the top of Victor’s head. “I swear, you’d just attach yourself to my back like a baby sloth or something if I gave you half a chance.” Hesmelled clean.

        “And you never give me half a chance. It’s a travesty, really,” Victor pouted.

        All of a sudden, Ernest and Jascha came barreling down the stairs and into the kitchen.

        “Why are you wearing all black?” Victor asked. “You’re even borrowing Dad’s coat and gloves?”

        “I’m in mourning,” Ernest said simply and Jascha rolled his eyes behind him.

        “Ernest, that is so so dramatic.” Henry shook his head.

        “I’m too dramatic? Me?” Ernest asked. “You’re one to talk!”

        “ I am so not that much of a drama queen!” Henry scoffed.

        “You locked yourself in the bathroom for three hours when Victor got that buzzcut!”

        “It was only two--”

        “And you just about died that time William went through his version of a scene phase,”

        “I was worried about--”

        “And let’s not forget about that time you accidentally stepped on a slug and wept _bitterly_ for an entire night.” Ernest raised his eyebrows. “And you’re not a drama queen?”

        “Incident: Slug was valid and you know it,” Henry huffed. Behind him, Victor was kneeling on the ground laughing his ass off. “Anyway, I was going to invite you two to the new cupcake cafe with me and Victor, but if my presence is not appreciated then we’ll just go,” Henry put his wrist to his forehead and made a show of overly Victorian swooning before his face dissolved into a roguish grin.

        “No,” Ernest whined, “I’d love to go with you,” he cast his eyes back to Jascha. “So...are we going with you and Victor or _you and Victor_.”

        Henry squinted his eyes and tilted his head, not quite the complete Frankenstein head cock, but pretty close. “I thought it could be a cute double date?” He didn’t mean to make it sound like a question.

        “You know what, I think that sounds nice,” Ernest said. “I deserve a consolation prize for what I am about to endure.” He flashed a smile at Jascha who smiled back. “But we have to get his haircut first.”

        “Sounds good,” Henry said as he placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do you need emotional support?” He looked pointedly deep into Ernest’s eyes. Something strange started pricking in the back of his throat.

        “Yeah, I do,” he turned to Victor, “We can pick you up after this fiasco, assuming you don't want to come along.”

        “No, you three chaos gremlins can go have a fun time. I’ve got to finish up some work here before I go out anyway,” Victor said with a wave of his hand, shooing them towards the door. He grabbed Henry’s coat and hat from the hook and threw it over his shoulders and head. Henry had to pull the wool from his face so he could look Victor in the eye.

        “I’ll be back soon,” Henry said.

        Victor nodded, “Can I hug you?”

        There was an awkward beat and the prickling in his throat became stronger. “Yes.”

        Victor wrapped his arms around his waist and then it was over. It was just a hug, after all. Henry couldn’t put his finger on why it felt weird. Or, he felt weird. It was strange, but before he could deal with it, Erenst ushered him out of the house.

        Ernest’s car was really nice. It must have been a privilege of being a Frankenstein. Jascha took shotgun, so Henry had the back all to himself. Part of him wished he could just stretch out and go to sleep, but for the first time ever, basically, his legs weren’t squished in the back of a car.Ernest and Jascha talked about stuff and things, but Henry wasn’t really paying attention. In no time at all, they arrived at the salon. It was pretty and posh and fit Jascha to a tee.

        “We’ll wait for you in this...room,” Ernest said once Jascha’s name was called. Once they were more or less alone, he turned to Henry. “You totally don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but how are you and Victor doing. Like, you seem okay, but you also seem tense. Like really, really tense. As in, I should lay you across that table and give you a back massage right here, right now tense.”

        Henry released a breath and tried to relax his shoulders but he couldn’t feel anything dramatically out of place. “I’m not _that_ tense,” he tried to argue.

        “Let me try something,” Ernest pressed his thumbs into the length of Henry’s spine and he felt several things pop back into place. “Better?”

        “I had no idea I needed that,” Henry gasped.

        “Dude, you’re always stressed. You always need it.” Ernest smiled.

        Henry smiled and sighed. “Victor apologized to me for everything and we’re working on grounding techniques for the both of us. I don’t know…”

        “That’ll be good. For the both of you.” Ernest added pointedly.

        “I think I feel guilty,” Henry nestled his chin against his chest. “I’m still a little nervous when I’m around him even though I’m choosing to trust him. What if it’s just an act, you know?”

        “I know, Henry. I think about it a lot. I like how you word it ‘choosing to trust him’” Ernest leaned against Henry’s shoulder. “Maybe someday that trust will be implicit again, but it will take a lot of effort from him. If it make you feel better, I think he would do it for you.”

        “I think he would do it for you too,” Henry said. “He’s missed you, I think, it’s just hard for him to process.”

        “I can’t believe he hugged me.” Ernest whispered. Somehow, he dropped his voice even lower. “Do you know what happened?”

        “With what?” Henry asked, trying to match his tone. “A lot of things happen with Victor.”

        “Never mind, if it’s not immediately obvious then you don’t know. It’s totally okay.”

        “You’ve given me, like, zero context. For all you know I could.” Henry smiled.

        “No, no I shouldn’t have asked.”

        “Okay, suit yourself,” Henry shrugged and noticed Ernest was fidgeting with his hands. “You know he’s only cutting off like four inches, right. Like, objectively he’ll still have long hair.”

        “But it won’t be like a mermaid’s,” Ernest whined.

        “I’m sure it will still flutter dramatically in the wind,” Henry assured him. “He is an objectively beautiful man. I’m surprised he hasn’t been offered about a million modeling and acting jobs.”

        “He was, once, when we were out shopping.” Ernest bumped into Henry’s shoulder. “Has yours ever been offered a modeling contract.”

        “Yeah sure, arranging skeleton models.” Henry bumped him back.

        They bickered for almost an hour before Jascha came back. His hair barely brushed his shoulders now and in Henry’s humble opinion, it looked way better. Jascha no longer looked like the poster child for an erotic Victorian romance and more like an normal arts kid.

        If he were being 100% honest, Henry did not pay attention to a single thing either of them said until they got home. Jascha and Ernest didn’t even leave the car as Henry ran inside to grab Victor.

        “Cupcake time?” He asked, already standing by the door with all the correct winter materials.

        “Cupcake time. Let’s roll,” Henry smirked as he got into the back of the car with Victor. The cafe was only a few minutes away, but Henry had been dutifully informed that Jascha needed to be told about corporate Christmas.

        “What do you mean your parents don’t just buy you gifts?” Jascha said as he bit into the strawberry cupcake, the same as Ernest. Henry thought he was going to witness a nuclear winter when Jascha had to choose between more than two things.

        “We just do gifts for like, special occasions,” Henry tried. “So there was a reason and we could celebrate.”

        “You celebrate Christmas?” Jascha asked. “You don’t just sit in church for hours and hours and hours forced to contemplate the weight of your sins and your place in life?”

        “I do that anytime I walk into a church anyway, not just Christmas,” Victor snarked and Ernest actually laughed.

        “Where are you even from?” Henry asked.

        “Chicago, but my dad is Russian and my grandmother is very Russian orthodox, so we did it her way,” Jascha shrugged. “I was shocked that Christmas was in December. I think I was like, eight or nine and had an argument with a kid in my class.”

        “When else is Christmas supposed to be?” Victor asked through a mouthful of chocolate.

        “January 7th-ish. Give or take a couple days,” Jascha shrugged again. “So I need to get everyone a gift?”

        “Everyone you like,” Ernest corrected.

        “No one can get William the Greek Iliad musical. That ones mine,” Henry smiles. “I’m very proud.” He took a bight of his lemon cupcake. It had been so long since he had sweets. Alphonse was a lovely man and a caring father, but he didn’t really do sugar at all, ever.

        “You have frosting on your nose,” Victor looked at Henry and beamed.

        “You have chocolate on your everything,” he shot back. It felt nice to make fun of Victor over such little things. It almost felt normal.

        “Are we going shopping soon?” Victor asked.

        “I’ll go out with Jascha sometime soonish. I need ideas first,” Ernest sighed. “You all have such specialized interests. Why can’t you be into something normal like sports.”

        “Classical music is pretty normal,” Jascha tried to defend himself.

        “No it isn’t,” the three of them said at the same time.

        “Rude,” Jascha put in a show of fake hurt and Ernest rushed to comfort him. Victor and Henry looked at each other for a moment and then away. Victor snuck another piece of chocolate into his mouth.

        “Where do you keep getting that?” Henry asked.

        “The void,” Victor winked back as Henry giggled. Suddenly, a waiter dropped a tray of glasses.

        “The void called and she wants her chocolate back,” Henry smirked.

        The rest of the evening was similarly pleasant. It was so nice to be out in public with clean hair and a clean lover. Ernest and Jascha were delightful and Henry regretted taking so long to finally get to know them. Eventually, he found himself in Victor’s room. Their room? He wasn’t sure. Victor lay his head across his lap while Henry played with his hair.

        “Have you thought more about grounding techniques?” Henry asked. When Victor closed his eyes, his eyelashes brushed his cheeks.

        “I have, actually,” Victor opened his eyes and Henry let himself drink in their depth. “I know it sounds silly, but touching around the heart helps a lot. You know, it just reminds me that you’re alive and I’m alive and everything’s fine as long as you’re alive.”

        “We’re alive,” Henry corrected, startled at the tenseness of his voice.

        “We’re alive,” Victor agreed and tasted the words as if they were honey.

        “I can do that,” Henry placed his hand in Victor’s chest. His heart beat steady and strong underneath his fingertips. He felt the muscles in Victor’s back relax against his touch.

        “Also, please don’t entertain my questions or let me make it a competition or a game. I know it’s a lot to ask..” he trailed off.

        “I’ll do my best,” Henry let his fingers trace over Victor’s forehead and the tips of his ears. It felt nice to be able to touch his skin again. It was soft and warm and Henry wanted to melt into it.

        “What about you?” Victor asked as he raised a hand to Henry’s cheek.

        “I like touch a lot, especially hugs, and rocking. I’m not sure why, but it helps. I like the heart thing too, actually.” He cocked his head and though for a moment. “I just need my internal monologue to be quiet. You know, something else to focus on.”

        “I can definitely do that.” Victor ran his thumb across Henry’s cheekbone and smiled. “We’ve got a handle on this, right?”

        “I think we do,” Henry nodded. “What do you want to do? It’s too early to go to sleep.”

        “I don’t want to move,” Victor nuzzled into Henry’s stomach.

        “We don’t have to,” he pressed a soft kiss to Victor’s forehead.

 

* * *

 

        Victor curled up tighter on the couch and flicked through the channels with disinterest. He had no idea what he was supposed to be looking for. He never really watched television even before he’d started living in his lab twenty-four/seven. All he ever saw was whatever Liz or Henry were watching, which meant that his experience with cable television amounted to a weird cocktail of figure skating, history channel specials about aliens, and horrible reality tv. Victor swore he still had flashbacks about the time Liz had made him marathon all five seasons of Big Brother in order to teach him ‘how normal people worked’ (though Victor was fairly certain that no normal person slept with another person’s boyfriend as revenge for being called fat).

        He settled momentarily a PBS special about the black plague just as Ernest entered the living room. The other looked around the room curiously.

        “Where’s Henry?” Ernest asked.

        “Helping William with something. I think they’re making a present for that Isabella girl.” Victor said absently.

        Ernest nodded and, after a moment, took a seat on the couch a fair distance away from Victor. He started flipping through the channels again.

        “Where’s Jascha?” Victor hesitated on a science special about cancer treatment. “Did you banish him for cutting his hair?”

        “No,” Ernest said, just a bit mournfully, “he’s upstairs, taking a nap I think.”

        “That’s uncharacteristic. You two are, like, attached at the hip.”

        Ernest rolled his eyes. “Like you’re one to talk.”

        Victor felt himself bristle for a beat before he forced the surge of energy into a laugh. “Yeah, that’s fair.” He stopped on an episode of some murder mystery, glanced to Ernest, and threw him the remote. “Anything but soccer.”

        Ernest turned on bobsledding.

        “Why do you hate me?”

        “I don’t hate you,” Ernest said innocently, “You said anything.”

        Victor hauled himself up in his seat to glare at Ernest. “You know damn well I didn’t mean sports.”

        Ernest smiled and stashed the remote between himself and the armchair leaving Victor to contemplate the unfairness of life while simultaneously trying to figure out the rules of sledding. It didn’t seem like much. Just four guys stuffed in a sled, careening down a track, occasionally leaning to the right. Enrapturing.

        “So,” Ernest asked without preamble, “how are things?”

        Victor frowned and turned his attention to Ernest, half grateful for the excuse to stop paying attention to the television even as his internal system went on high alert mode. “Things?” He asked, voice just a tad too suspicious.

        Ernest shifted, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Yeah. I mean, um, how are things with Henry? In general?” He shrugged. “Things.”

        Victor took a breath and relaxed in his seat again. “Things are pretty good, I think.” He said. “Things with Henry are...you know...still weird. They’re going to be weird until I get my act totally together though so…”

        “How long do you think that’ll take?” Ernest tipped his head to one side.

        “Uh. I’ll relax about it in about three years.” Victor answered honestly before taking another inventory of Ernest’s slightly pinched face. He softened his tone. “It’s fine. We’re talking the situation through. I’m pretty sure we’ll be okay.” He stretched back in the seat. “The main issue in my life right now, really, is that Henry isn’t cuddling me.”

        Ernest snorted. “I thought you, like, hated being touched?”

        “I do. Except by Henry. And, I don’t know, maybe Elizabeth. Dad.” Victor thought it over for a second. “I hate being touched by people I don’t know well.”

        “Huh.” Ernest said. “I guess that makes sense. Sort of.” He sounded odd but Victor had no clue how to address the shift so he pushed through it instead.

        “‘Sort of.’” Victor repeated with a smirk. “So you and Jascha were sharing a bed three days into knowing each other, huh?”

        “Shut up.” Ernest shot back. He paused. “I think it was more like a week.”

        “Which means it was two days.”

        “Still beats you.” Ernest glowered.

        “Yeah, well,” Victor grinned ruefully, “we’ve already established that the Victor way of doing things is never the ideal.”

        A brief silence fell over the room once more as Ernest gave his full attention to the television and Victor contemplated exactly what to do next. Thanks to their little talk, coexisting with Ernest had grown much more bearable but it didn’t change certain facts, a heavy history between them, now made more poisonous by the acknowledgement of its existence, and a lack of intimate knowledge in general on Victor’s part. He knew more about Ernest than, say, William, of course. Ernest and he had grown up together, basically as Irish twins due to their parents ‘carelessness.’ But considering the extended year of radio silence…

        “How’s school?” Victor asked, immediately regretting the action as it viciously shattered the silence in the room.

        Ernest startled and looked to him in confusion. “School?” He asked dumbly.

        “Yeah.” Victor attempted to loosen his tone into something genuinely curious and non threatening instead of guilt stricken and awkward. “School. Sports medicine. How’s that?”

        “Oh it’s, uh, it’s good. I’m doing well. Taking lots of anatomy classes obviously…” Clear reluctance and distrust laced Ernest’s words and he sent Victor a series of wary sideways glances as he spoke.

        Victor sank himself lower into the couch and pulled his eyes away from Ernest, feigning the briefest measure of disinterest. He probably should have started with a different subject. A sting ghosted his skin as he recalled the many incidents of stomping on his younger brother’s grades and academic success, insisting that he couldn’t possibly be smart because that was Victor’s role in the family. The smart kid.

        “Cool, cool.” Victor paused. “Have you finished your humanities requirement? That one really kicked my ass.”

        “Really?” Ernest leaned forward, brows knit.

        “Yup.” Victor pushed down his already damaged pride as he kept his eyes on the television and watched one of the bobsledders talk to the camera crew about his tragic life as the only bobsledder in southern Texas. “I took Intro to English and I swear if it hadn’t been for Henry, I would have flunked out of undergrad. I barely passed as it was.”

        “But...it was a basic English course, right? Like-”

        “The ones they design specifically for science students.” Victor laughed. “Yeah it was. And I didn’t get any of it. I have never felt more dumb in my life than I did talking with the professor about my first paper.” He sat up and mimicked adjusting a pair of reading glasses on his nose with a quivering hand. “‘Well Mr. Frankenstein, while I think you’ve got the right intention with this paper, I feel I must point out that your description of Odysseus as ‘a womanizing, arrogant, ugly old ass’ is a bit improper for a college assignment.’” He smiled as he heard Ernest laughing and further elaborated the act by hunching his back. “‘Furthermore, your in-depth contemplation on the size of Odysseus’ dick is a bit-’”

        “You didn’t!” Ernest interrupted.

        “Oh I absolutely did.” Victor said with satisfaction. “I’ve honestly never seen Henry more disappointed in me and that counts the time I tried to survive on only coffee for a month and a half.”

        A kind of comfort was returning to Ernest, marked by the untensing of the shoulders and a clear meeting of Victor’s still ‘distracted’ gaze. “No way that worked.”

        “It would have if Henry hadn’t hidden my protein supplements.” Victor pouted.

        “Probably for the best that he did.” Ernest hesitated for a second. “I didn’t realize you took protein supplements? I thought those were only for athletes.”

        “Oh, didn't you know, I’m a sports fanatic now.” Victor said casually. “I run triathlons.”

        “Marathons.” Ernest corrected. “Triathlons have swimming and biking components.”

        “I swim three miles straight every morning.” Victor said deadpan.

        “Sure.” Ernest scrutinized him and, for a short moment, Victor was terrified that the other was going to start lecturing him on the history of sport racing. However, he only leaned a bit farther forward. “Why did you hug me then?”

        “What?” Victor tried to track back the course of the conversation in his head. They were talking about undergrad, right? Sports. Victor was trying to make Ernest understand that he was smart too.

        Oh. It clicked. Their talk. Victor’s apology. Victor squirmed in his seat, desperately wishing Henry were here to take over the conversation for him or, at least, hold his hand through it. He shrugged. “It felt like the right thing to do.”

        Ernest nodded, expression still taunt. “Yeah, but you said you don’t like being touched by people you don’t know well…”

        Victor cocked an eyebrow. “I’ve literally known you since the day you were born.” He said flatly.

        “Worst day of your life.” Ernest replied sarcastically. Victor winced as he recognized the words often repeated to Ernest throughout their shared childhood.

        “Nah.” He said slowly, just barely resisting the urge to curl in on himself as the itch in his skin crescendoed to a swarming. “That was definitely the day Elizabeth told me all about her sex life. In graphic detail, mind you.”

        “Was she drunk?”

        “I wish.” He shuttered. “Innocence I will never recover.”

        Ernest nodded again, loosely.

        A thick, hazy buzz descended over the space between them as the bobsledder on screen screamed something about team spirit and perseverance. Victor squeezed his eyes shut for a much needed moment of preparation.

        “Do you want to lean on me?”

        Ernest startled and stared at him. “What?”

        “Do you want to lean against me?” Victor repeated through slightly clenched teeth. “I’m, uh...I’m cold and I don’t want to get up.”

        “...I can get you a blanket.”

        “No. I need body heat and since Henry’s abandoned me,” Victor waved a hand towards Ernest, “Tag. You’re it.”

        Ernest regarded him with the utmost caution. “Are you sure?” He finally asked.

        “Yes.” Victor said with as much false confidence as he could muster. He needed Ernest to agree to this before he had the chance to change his mind. Adjusting his legs, Victor held out an arm. “Come.”

        Ernest scooched over on the couch slowly, approaching Victor the way one might a hungry lion, and leaned stiffly against his shoulder. The first few moments of contact were nothing short of pure agony, dancing splinters of serrated glass reverberating up and down his arm and through his bones, but gradually the feeling lessened. With care, Victor slid into a more comfortable position and draped one arm over Ernest’s shoulder, silently coaching himself all the while, little notes like ‘pretend this is Henry’ or ‘relax your shoulder’ or ‘stop being a bitch.’ It was just Ernest. There was nothing to be afraid of. He could trust him.

        Victor took a deep breath and then another, setting a pattern for himself as Ernest also began to relax against him. Remembering his talk with Henry, he gently grasped Ernest’s wrist with his free hand to feel his pulse. Thankfully, his brother didn’t pull away though he did give Victor an odd, concerned side eye, which Victor explained away with a smile. It took upwards of a half an hour by Victor’s estimate but eventually the sparking in his body dissipated and disappeared, leaving not quite warmth and comfort but not discomfort either. An even kind of middlish feeling. It would do.

        The game or tournament or whatever was just ending as Jascha entered the room. Immediately his eyes widened, flitting between Victor and Ernest faster than Victor could track them. He offered the other man a weak smile and, when Ernest didn’t respond to the sight of his boyfriend, glanced down. Ernest was asleep. How the fuck?

        He looked back Jascha, stock still in the doorway, and gestured with his head towards the couch. “Please,” he hissed, “please change the channel for me.”

        That seemed to snap Jascha out of his shock and he crossed over to retrieve the remote. “What do you want?” He asked.

        “Don’t use your hands.” Victor said instinctively. “Give it to me.”

        Jascha handed the remote over cautiously and sat on the other side of Ernest. Victor pulled up the tv guide and frowned. “What do you like to watch?” He asked Jascha.

        “I, uh. Don’t know.” Jascha said nervously. “Try forty-three?”

        Victor breathed a small sigh of relief as Ernest shifted in his sleep to lean more on Jascha though the feeling was quickly chased by the sapping coldness of lost touch. Victor pushed it aside and changed to channel forty-three. The dull hum of classical music overtook the living room as a young ballerina glided across the screen.

        Victor glared at Jascha pointedly.

        The other man shrank back in his seat, pulling Ernest closer to him as if the other were a human shield.

        Victor forced himself to look away and sighed. “Okay,” he said quietly, both to Jascha and the room at large, “talk me through this.”

        “Talk you through…?” Jascha asked hesitantly.

        “If I’m going to watch a,” Victor checked the guide again and grimaced, “three hour production of the Nutcracker, I need you to explain it to me. Plot, musical techniques, dance movements. Go.”

        For once, Jascha seemed happy to comply with his demands.

 

* * *

 

        Jascha could do this. He could handle pretty much anything if he was allowed to talk about music, ballet, or Tchaikovsky, and now he was handed the opportunity to use all three as a coping mechanism.

        “And then the mice come to life and the nutcracker has to-” Jascha was almost done explaining act one.

        “Wait. No. That isn’t how mice work, they were already alive,” Victor said flatly.

        Jascha sighed. Apparently explaining anything to Victor was like trying to fit his carry-on luggage in his violin case. “It’s a children’s story. For children. The mice become the size of people and the mouse king fights the nutcracker.”

        “Why?” Victor asked. “He seems fine to me.”

        “Oh, no we aren’t there yet. That’s Fritz and Clara. Normal children.” Jascha said, pointing at the two dancers on the screen. Jascha smiled. “Fritz was the first important role I played in a ballet.”

        “You...did this tippy-tappy toed nonsense?” Victor’s eyes were wide. Jascha felt embarrassed, mostly because he’d forgotten he hadn’t told anyone in the house anything about his strange performing-arts adolescence. It would probably be bad for Victor to find out that he’d played Hamlet before he had full mastery over basic algebra. Not that he had mastery over math.

        “Yes.” Jascha nodded, hoping Victor might by some miracle decide that the ballet was more interesting than gathering information on his life.

        “Professionally?” Victor asked incredulously.

        “Nope,” Jascha said simply. “Just for fun.”

        “For how long-” Jascha stopped listening because Ernest moved. Jascha had to bite his cheek to resist the urge to stroke his hair out of his eyes.

        “Victor?” Ernest asked blearily, looking at the far side of the couch where his brother was curled in a ball. “Then who…?” Ernest looked up to Jascha and beamed. Jascha smiled back, miserable that he wasn’t supposed to use his fingers for things as benign as stroking his hair. “You finally woke up,” Ernest said lightly.

        “Yes,” Jascha wanted to hug him. It was so difficult to survive without being allowed to touch things. He never would have imagined how huge a role his hands played in basic things like holding Ernest’s hand or cuddling with him.

        “Jascha was just telling me that he used to do ballet,” Victor said with a slight smirk. Jascha had forgotten he was there.

        “Ballet?” Ernest asked. “Like, dancing?”

        “Ballet is dancing, yes,” Jascha nodded.

        “But you were so bad at running the one time we worked out together,” Ernest’s voice was affectionate. “And you didn’t know how the weight room worked.”

        “They never made me run or, uh, bench press things?” He couldn’t remember weight lifting lingo. Knowing three languages was hard enough. He didn’t need a fourth.

        “You did fine at weights once I showed you how to do it,” Ernest toyed slightly with his fingertips, and Jascha closed his eyes. It felt amazing to be able to touch Ernest’s skin with his own fingers, the same ones he’d always had and the same ones that remembered the violin.

        “How long until I can use my hands for things?” Jascha asked, glancing to Victor.

        “I’m guessing today is your second injection day,” Victor said thoughtfully. “Right?”

        “Oh, yeah,” Ernest said gently. He must have felt every muscle in Jascha’s body tense. He hated that weird blue stuff and the giant syringes. “We can do that after dinner.”

        “Then I’d say you can probably start doing light tasks with them tomorrow,” Victor continued. “Nothing difficult or strenuous.”

        “Does music-”

        “Piano counts as difficult and strenuous.”

        “But it’s not-”

        “I don’t care if it isn’t difficult or strenuous for _you_. It’s a lot to ask of still-healing nerves and tendons.” Victor chided. Jascha sighed sadly and slid down on the couch far enough to lean his head on Ernest’s shoulder. He smiled when Ernest reached up and pet his hair comfortingly.

        “We can find fun stuff to do,” Ernest said sympathetically. “What are his, uh, limitations?” He asked Victor seriously.

        “Uhh...he can’t lift anything heavier than a pound, can’t do anything that requires prolonged tension in the tendons, shouldn’t do anything that requires strong or quick reflexes,” Victor paused.

        “What?” Ernest asked suspiciously. Jascha sat up and saw the Victor had a light smirk.

        “If you were asking about whether or not he can use his hands for sex-”

        “He was not,” Jascha said quickly, before Ernest could respond. He felt heat rise to his cheeks and the desperate desire to leave the room.

        “I imagine it’s getting to be an issue,” Victor said slyly. “It’s been, what, maybe a week?”

        “Victor…” Ernest’s tone was slightly harsh. But then he paused. “I mean…” He looked up at Jascha. Did he look apologetic? Embarrassed? Jascha wasn’t sure what that expression was, but Ernest turned back to Victor. “Can he, like...you know?” Jascha gaped at Ernest, embarrassment and shame washing over him in waves. Mostly because some small part of him did want to know. He couldn’t lie and say that he wasn’t getting progressively more uncomfortable and horny as time wore on, especially now that he and Ernest shared a bed.

        “Depends on the sex,” Victor’s smile was cat-like. “But it probably won’t be a good idea for him to rely on his hands for anything more intense than reading for at least until the third injection. Just in case.”

        “Cool,” Ernest nodded. Jascha could feel the tension coming off of him, which only made his own shoulders tense up more. He wanted to curl up in a ball and die. “Cool. Okay.”

        “You okay, Jascha?” Jascha returned to his body, brain desperately trying to figure out what Victor was talking about now.

        “Act two just started,” Jascha pointed back at the TV, thankful for the convenient means of derailing the conversation. “Look, they’re in the land of sweets.”

        “You’re such a nerd,” Ernest said affectionately, settling back against his side. “How long did you do ballet for?”

        “Ten years,” Jascha said lightly. Sometimes he missed his ballet classes. But then he remembered how completely insane the girls got right around the time they turned thirteen, and he didn’t miss it as much. They were all so deeply concerning.

        They barely made it through act three before it was time for dinner. William spent the whole meal telling them about the unbelievably elaborate thing he was making for Isabella. Something about a drawing of a shield, with all these little scenes inlaid in it. Apparently he was drawing it and Henry was helping him color. Jascha smiled. He liked William a lot, even if he would occasionally appear out of nowhere and hug him.

        Once they were back up in Ernest’s room his mood dropped. He decided it would be childish to try to hide in the bathroom again, so he just sat on the bed. He grimaced as Ernest appeared, holding a fresh box of needles.

        “Eyes first, or hands?” Ernest asked apologetically.

        “Neither.” Jascha said miserably.

        “Jascha…”

        “Eyes. Then hands.” Jascha conceded. He lay on the bed and didn’t struggle, letting Ernest finish the injections into his eyes as quickly as possible. He relaxed slightly when Ernest kissed him after the shots were done.

        “Ready?” Ernest asked, sitting beside Jascha. He hesitantly placed on of his hands in Ernest’s lap, leaning his head on his shoulder. His willingness to comply with medical torture earned him another kiss.

        Ernest tied both tourniquets at the same time, and then did both injections. Jascha didn’t say anything this time, mostly out of fear that Alphonse would come back and think they were having unbearably weird sex. He hid his face against Ernes’s shoulder, riding out the burning, freezing pains for the five minutes that he needed to wear the tourniquets. He did gasp, however, once the rubber bands were released and the pain dissipated.

        “Feel better?” Ernest asked, smoothing back Jascha’s hair. He’d taken off the latex gloves, but his hands still smelled medical.

        “Mhm,” Jascha nodded against his neck. He let Ernest lay him down on the bed. He felt a wave of electricity radiated through his body as Ernest slid a hand under his shirt and traced circles on his stomach. “Ernest…” Jascha whispered, looking over at him. His dark eyes watched him softly, and a smile played on his lips. Jascha bit his lip as Ernest’s hand moved lower.

        “I have a confession to make,” Ernest finally said. Jascha closed his eyes and nodded weakly as Ernest’s hand settled over his growing hardness. “I’ve been, uh, you know. Missing it too. I actually started jerking off in the shower…” Jascha could hear the embarrassment in Ernest’s voice, but couldn’t really bring himself to worry about it.

        “I know,” Jascha said quietly, getting dizzy as Ernest unbuttoned his jeans and slid his hand inside. Ernest laughed awkwardly.

        “Really?” Jascha opened his eyes and saw that a blush had tinged Ernest’s cheeks pink.

        “You aren’t exactly subtle,” Jascha said lightly. “And we share a room.”

        “Right,” Ernest smiled. He shifted down and over top of Jascha, placing a kiss on his stomach and sliding his jeans and underwear past his hips.

        “What are you doing?” Jascha asked breathlessly. He reached out to touch Ernest’s face, but Ernest placed his hands back by his sides.

        “You can’t use your hands,” Ernest whispered.

        “But-”

        “Don’t worry about it,” Ernest smiled sweetly. “How do I do this?”

        “...Do what?” Jascha tried and failed to get his brain to work.

        “Like, blow you,” Ernest blushed deeper. “I...almost definitely can’t, like, fit all of it in my mouth, but-”

        “You don’t have to,” Jascha interjected. He couldn’t decide if he was nervous or excited. Probably both. “If you don’t want to.”

        “I do want to,” Ernest kissed his stomach again. “Tell me how.”

        Jascha gathered the shreds of his scattered mind. “Uh...you just. Use your hand like normal, but also your, uh…” he felt awkward and exposed and was rapidly losing his language abilities. “Mouth. And tongue.”

        “Okay,” Ernest stretched up and kissed him hungrily on the lips, sliding his shirt off. Jascha let the smallest sound of protest escape his mouth as Ernest pulled away, moving back down. Jascha gasped as he felt Ernest’s mouth on his cock, forcing himself not to make too much noise. It was nearly impossible, since without being allowed to use his hands he had no other outlet for the overwhelming sensation.

        Ernest was always a fast learner, especially when it came to anything involving motion. Jascha clenched his jaw as Ernest’s movements became coordinated. He dug his nails into the blankets as he felt Ernest’s tongue toying against the head of his penis, and he had to grind his teeth to keep from making noise. After a week without anything more intense than kisses, he could feel already that he wasn’t going to be able to last long.

        “Ernest,” Jascha said through his teeth, feeling his mind running numb the closer he got to orgasming. “Ernest, slow down, or I’m going to-” He leaned his head back against the pillow and groaned as Ernest increased the pressure of his hand and tongue, taking him deeper into his mouth. “Ernest-” Jascha gasped as he came, and he sighed as he felt Ernest swallow. His movements got softer and slower, and Jascha collapsed against the bed. After a moment, Ernest came up to join him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

        “How was it?” Ernest asked with a smile. Jascha couldn’t talk, so he just nuzzled against his neck. He sighed contentedly as Ernest wrapped his arms around him.

        “I love you,” Jascha finally managed to say. Ernest shifted so that he could kiss him.

        “I love you too,” Ernest whispered. “I...need to get ready for bed. Shower and stuff.” Jascha smirked lazily.

        “You mean you need to go jerk off,” Jascha said against his neck. Ernest laughed.

        “Uh, yeah,” Ernest blushed as he kissed Jascha one more time. “I, like, also need to actually get ready for bed. But also, you know…”

        “I wish I could come with you,” Jascha said with asad smile as he settled into the pillows.

        “I wish you could too,” Ernest said, grabbing his towel and pajamas. He smirked before he headed to the bathroom. “I’ll be thinking of you.”

        “Good,” Jascha smiled, already slipping into a contented sleep.


	42. Helpful Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry helps with gifts. Victor helps with panic. Jascha goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thanks, as always for reading!! We always love hearing from you!!
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter include: descriptions of a panic attack.
> 
> Stay tuned to the very end for a ***VERY SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT***

            “What do I even get him?” Jascha asked as he paced back and forth in front of Henry. “I know what he likes but I don’t know what he _likes_ likes and what if I get it wrong?”

            “My dear, sweet Jascha. It’s not that big of a deal. He’ll be happy getting anything from you. Uhhh, he likes soccer, oh! And cats, but he doesn’t talk about it very much. He also loves when William makes things for him.” Henry sighed and scooched over on the couch to make room for him.

            “It has to be perfect,” Jascha flopped over on himself dramatically.

            “It will be, because it’s you. You is the operative word here,” Henry smiled. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know what I’m going to get Victor yet.”

            “Oh no! Me either! Or Alphonse or William!”

            “William’s easy. If you get him a book he’ll be the happiest little clam,” Henry eyed Jascha as he took notes.

            “And Alphonse?”

            “He likes Classical music and law. He has a thing for the jurist Ulpian. He’s surprisingly chaotic, but you wouldn’t necessarily be able to tell,” Henry shrugged. “He also likes books. Books in general are good gifts.”

            “Alphonse is not chaotic,” Jascha said, turning to look Henry in the eye.

            “He blackmailed my father for five years and named Victor after his best friend who sold weapons to the mob. He’s a little chaotic.”

            “The mob?” His voice rose about an octave before he brought it back down to a whisper. “Alphonse is involved with the mob?”

            “Involved it a heavy word,” Henry shrugged yet again. “He’s a legal wizard and did a lot of cleaning up.”

            “So I should get Alphonse a butterfly knife for when the mob inevitably comes knocking on the door to kill us all.”

            “I don’t think a butterfly knife would help very much,” Henry noticed that Jascha was starting to hyperventilate a little bit. Maybe this was too stressful of a conversation. “Besides, it’s never going to happen. Maybe get him, I don’t know, literally anything else.”

            “What about...Victor?” Jascha asked Henry caught the catch in his voice.

            “You okay?”

            “I just….” Jascha stammered. “He still scares me and I think he’s always going to scare me and I’m sick of being afraid. Sorry.”

            “You don’t need to apologize. I know what he did to you was...a lot,” Henry moved closer to Jascha and rested his head on his shoulder. Touching people was good. He felt more connected to everything.

            “I feel like I should be grateful but...” he flailed his arms before remembering he wasn’t supposed to stress his wrists. “It’s just so difficult.”

            “I know. You don’t have to forgive him.” Henry was comforted by the steady rise and fall of Jascha’s chest.

            “But Ernest has and I want to support Ernest.” Jascha tentatively leaned his head on top of Henry’s. It wasn’t quite comfortable per se, but he was grateful for the increased contact. “How can you even stand him?”

            “Well, it’s kinda hard to explain because you haven’t exactly seen him when he’s been stable, but he cares. A lot. About everything. And you’ve seen when he decides he cares more about science or his belief that he’s a bad person.”

            “He is a bad person,” Jascha cut in. “Good people don’t push people like Ernest or you to the edge.”

            “He...has done and said evil things,” Henry pressed his forehead into Jascha’s shoulder. “And I know I've sometimes been an enabler. But he’s trying hard, now, to be a better person and I think that matters. We’ve had a few conversations about boundaries and grounding techniques and we’ll have a lot more.”

            “ _You_ were an enabler?” Jascha sounded incredulous and Henry felt his skin start to prickle again.

            “Yeah, I was also reckless and a brat. So many things. I wasn’t exactly one for rules...or anything. But, you know, my teachers adored me for some reason so I never got in trouble,” he shrugged. “Anything else you want to know about my childhood?”

            “I think you don’t have a really great gauge in how you actually are,” Jascha hummed.

            “Oh, I have a great gauge on that,” Henry wasn’t so certain. “Other people see what they want to. I’m basically just as bad as Victor in that regard.”

            “I think that’s not true,” Jascha moved a little closer. “Listen, I know I haven’t known you for very long, but this seems like a way for you to explain to yourself why your life has been so terrible. If it’s your fault, then you feel like you deserve the punishment, which I guess is easier to take than punishment you don’t deserve.” Henry felt his heart stop in his chest. “But here’s the thing. It’s not your fault and will never be your fault. The world isn’t fair and it’s evil that you’ve had to suffer so much. Making yourself believe that you’re evil doesn’t help. I don’t know. I should shut up. I’m not a therapist.”

            Henry felt like Jascha ripped into his chest and removed all of his organs with his bare hands. It was too much. He felt his brain turn and his breathing pick up and his hands twitch but he couldn’t think of what it meant.

            “Henry, is this hard for you?” Jascha asked.

            “What?”

            “Letting Victor back in after what he said?”

            And with that, Henry was forced into a fit of self-contemplation that he had been avoiding since Victor had his breakdown. Was it hard? Yes, obviously. What hurt more than Victor’s words was the fact that Henry believed him. Believes him. They were legitimate character flaws; the dependence and the fear. He had been trying to be better and make friends but it just made things worse, so what was he supposed to do? But he was afraid and the fear wouldn’t go away. It felt deeply ingrained into his being. What was he unless he was terrified?

            Disgusting. The thoughts coursed through his head. Even if he knew _he knew_ they weren’t real, he felt that they were. It felt like ragged glass cutting through his skin and lodging into his bone. _Like a dog_ , he thought. _Like a dog._

            “Henry? Henry? You look terrified. I’m sorry I asked,” Jascha shook him awake.

            “No, it’s fine. Yeah, it’s really hard,” Henry felt the weight of dread settle around him.

            “And?”

            “And?” Henry asked.

            “There was an implicit ‘and’ at the end of that sentence. I’m not very perceptive, but I did hear that.” Jascha cocked his head like a Frankenstein.

            “And I think some of the stuff he said was true and that’s what hurts.”

            “Bullshit,” Jascha snapped. “Absolute bullshit. You’re not defined by what sort of awful things Victor thinks about you when he’s completely insane. That would be like defining me by the fact that I’m a walking corpse. Would you do that to me?”

            “No, you’re a person,” Henry closed his eyes and leaned into him.

            “Exactly. You’re a person too, but sometimes it seems like you forget it.” He laughed hollowly. “Do you want Victor?”

            “I do,” Henry hated how small and weak his voice sounded. “What do you do when you and Ernest have problems?”

            “We have...nothing like this,” Jascha admitted, “I don’t know, I think it might be a good idea for you guys to talk specifically about what was said.”

            “But he already apologized…” Henry trailed off.

            “So? It still hurts you. Better to not just live in pain, yeah?”

            “Yeah,” Henry sighed and rubbed his eyes. He didn’t feel tears, but he felt the possibility. “We were talking about Christmas?” Oh, he was crying. He could hear it in his own voice. It didn’t seem real.

            Jascha hugged Henry. He smelled like cinnamon and flowers. “It’s in three weeks and I’m not in Moscow. My grandmother is going to kill me. Also, I don’t want to go to church.”

            “I don’t think Alphonse is going to make you go to church,” Henry tried to laugh.

            “But what if he does?”

            “He won’t,” Henry disentangled himself from Jascha's arms. “I’m going to go wait for Victor to come home.”

            “Are you going to be alright?” Jascha asked.

            “I’ll be okay,” Henry tried to smile.

 

* * *

 

Elizabeth forced Justine to drive him home from therapy, supposedly in order to spend some quality time with Victor, though he knew it was more likely to scope out the hospital he was in considering Liz spent most of the ride back describing in detail how to escape from the third floor window using only tied blankets, a radio, and a latex glove. Victor took notes on the small pad his dad kept in the front glove box, having learned long ago that when Elizabeth talked crime, she had some genuinely good tips. By the time they arrived back home, however, she had transitioned into tips on seduction and he was reaching the end of his sanity.

Victor vacated the vehicle as soon as it dipped under thirty miles per hour.

Henry met him at the door, which wasn’t so much the concerning thing even if it was unexpected. No, the concerning thing was the fact that Henry was making his oh so special ‘I’ve been crying but I don’t want you to know it’ face. Victor was instantly on high alert, every muscle in his body tensing to a point.

He slowed in his approach and set to work puzzling out Henry’s body language before common sense kicked in. “You’ve been crying.” Victor tried to phrase it as a question but it ended up a statement. “What’s up?”

Henry stiffened slightly and produced a thin smile. “I’m okay.” He hesitated, flits of guilt and anxiety smoking free of the façade under Victor’s doubtful gaze. “Actually, I- Can we talk? For a moment?”

The pit of Victor’s stomach did a series of flips worthy of their own act at Cirque du Soleil before he was able to draw to light his own falsified ease. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and inclined with his head. “Office or bedroom?”

“Bedroom.” Henry said softly.

“Wonderful.” Victor shed his coat and tossed it carelessly over the stair railing. “Let’s go.”

As he mounted the steps, he tried not to notice that Henry kept five paces behind him.

The bedroom had begun to feel habitable again but Victor seemed almost alien to it now; closed in and trapped. It was an unwelcome familiarity and he barely resisted the urge to hover in the doorway. He crossed to the bed and sat just as Henry appeared behind him. Hovering in the doorway.

Victor relaxed back on the bed, leaving plenty of room for Henry as a silent invitation. He breathed a sigh of relief when the other took it and settled beside him.

“So,” with care, Victor adjusted himself so that Henry could lean his head on his shoulder, “what did you want to talk about?”

Against him, Henry’s stiffness froze solid, the beats of silence stretching on longer than Victor could count much less stand. Already his mind was burning ahead of him, imagined scenarios, scenes in which Henry pushed him out of the room or told him he’d changed his mind about Victor staying or, worse still, what if this was something to do with Henry’s father. That was an old fear but ever prevalent for its deep grove through Victor’s mind. Without meaning to, Victor drew his knees to his chest, jostling Henry out of stupor.

“Why did you call me a dog?” He spoke without warning, quiet but splitting in the sealed room.

Unfortunately, unlike with his talk with Ernest, Victor knew exactly what Henry was referencing. A slow curdling boil sprang to life in the hallow of his chest. “I…” he pulled back and tried to make quick work of searching Henry’s face only to realize panic had robbed him of the ability, “…would it help?”

“Help?” Henry asked, confusion lifting the word at the end.

“Help.” Victor confirmed. “Is that what you want to talk about? Why I said it like that?” He bit his lip. “Though I feel like I should reemphasize that literally anything I said while off my rocker is completely on me and my horrible brain and definitely not a reflection of you.”

“But you said it before.” Henry rushed. “Before…your breakdown. And you said that you meant it too.”

He had, hadn’t he? Victor squeezed his eyes closed and tried to make himself a small as possible in the bed corner. “Would it help?” He repeated hastily, hoping the answer this time would be no.

“I don’t know.” Henry breathed. “Maybe.”

“But not yes.” Victor pressed.

As if responding to the desperation in his voice, Henry’s miserable amber eyes found his own once more. “It’s that bad, huh?” He hung his head and pushed out a soft, jaded laugh. “Why am I even asking? Of course, it’s that bad.”

Victor looked him over helplessly. Touch, he reminded himself. But would that really help if he was the cause of the misery? With as much caution as could be exercised, Victor tore himself from his curled position and placed a light hand on Henry’s hunched back only to draw away as the other flinched away.

He stared at Victor with slightly wild eyes, amber running muddy with exhaustion and fear. “I am a dog, aren’t I?”

“No, you’re not.”

“But you said-”

“Henry, nothing I’ve said within the last few months has been true. Like, nothing. At all.” Victor ripped the rising frustration out of his voice as Henry ducked his head again. His breathing was getting too fast and Victor was quickly losing control of the course of the conversation. What on earth was he supposed to say to fix this if exhausting his own position as a bad person didn’t work? It had worked with Ernest and Dad so far. Why not now? He was sliding on a greasy track with no breaks and no way to yell for help.

The answer hit Victor square in the forehead, so obvious he could barely justify missing it. Henry was panicking. Okay. He knew how to handle Henry panic. Even if the cause was new and horrifically his, Victor knew the steps to this dance by heart. Or, well, teenage Victor did in any case.

Victor pulled his hand from his chest and laid it across Henry’s back, firmly this time, and began to rub slow circles. “Okay,” he said in his best imitation of calmness, “Henry, can you breathe with me for a moment?”

“No.” Henry gasped between the beginnings of small sobs.

“Can you do it if I do it too?” Victor rephrased. He waited for Henry to nod before readjusting himself in front of the other man. He reached down and carefully pulled his glasses from his face, folding them on the bedside table. He pet Henry’s hair back and began an over exaggerated breathing routine. Ten in, ten out, repeat.

Once Henry started catching onto the rhythm, Victor paused. The words were ready and easy on his tongue.

“You’re loyal.” Victor said. “That’s the short and long of it, I guess. You’re incredibly loyal to the people you love and incredibly dedicated to the passions you pursue. It’s one of the things that defines you and honestly one of the best qualities about you.”

“Because it makes me obedient.” Henry whispered. Victor wondered if he was supposed to hear that.

He shifted closer, pressing his knees against Henry’s. “When have you ever been obedient?” He asked. “How many rules did you break in high school, sum total? Definitely more than me. Not to mention that you were always more daring. I mean, you burned a fucking house down!”

“Elizabeth burned a house down.” Henry corrected. His gasping had lessened to pants, the stiffness disintegrating into depression, a puppet with the strings cut.

“You did too.” Victor added. “You’re far from obedient.”

“But I was obedient. I was dependent. I still am.” His voice was muffled by his knee.

The _on you_ hung unsaid but Victor still heard it, weak and bitter as salt. It broke his resolve for a second, a beat. He held himself still through the writhing waves of slimy guilt and tearing agony. “You’re not dependent on me.” Victor evened his voice the way one might prune a tree, clipping the edges of his words and whipping the weeping sap away precisely. “I may have thought so before, tricked myself into thinking so, but it was never true. You remember when we had that fight at the end of October? With the sex shop?”

Henry nodded against the fabric of his pants.

“Then I’m sure you remember the aftermath.” Victor continued gently.

“I was a wreck.” Henry said.

“And I had completely fallen apart within days.” Victor tilted his head and offered Henry a weak smile. “If anyone’s the dependent one in this relationship, it’s always been me.”

Henry didn’t say anything. Victor grimaced. “You reached out.” He said. “You looked to Justine and Elizabeth and they got you through. Now you have them and Ernest and Jascha too. And you always had Dad. You’re not dependent on me. You have them.”

It stung a bit. He couldn’t help that it did. After so many years of being Henry’s only confident, of Henry being only his, to admit out loud once more that it was over. That it was evil to begin with. Then he remembered his thoughts, remembered the patterns. Remembered that Henry would never have loved him at all unless he had cut the man off from all other sources, from all other salvation. The pain returned in a violent rush that made him want to shrivel and die right there in the corner.

A small quake entered his hand as he forced himself to continue petting Henry’s hair. “You’re wonderful and nothing anyone says will change that. You’ll know that one day.” He paused. “You’ll understand that one day.” He amended.

Henry nodded again. His breathing was even and that’s all that mattered. Victor stilled in his comfort, preparing himself to remind Henry that, given all the unforgivable things he’d said, the other was justified in leaving him. That that wasn’t a one-time offer. That he should find someone better.

He was cut short, however, as Henry straightened himself and pressed his head into Victor’s chest. Henry didn’t feel much better. Victor could tell. He wrapped his arms around him regardless and tried to communicate as much love as could be made through touch alone.

“You have them as well.” Henry said. “Ernest and Elizabeth. You’re not dependent on me either.”

“I know.” Victor said. “I’ll be okay too.”

Henry probably knew he was lying. He was decent enough not to point it out.

 

* * *

 

            Jascha had been sitting in the music room, decidedly not playing the piano, watching the door. He leapt as he saw the front door open, and a breathless, wind-blown Ernest appeared. “Ernest!” Jascha said quickly, causing him to jump. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

            “Were you just hiding in there waiting for me to get back?” Ernest smiled. When Jascha kissed him his lips were freezing from the winter air.

            “We need to go to my apartment,” Jascha said quickly.

            “What apartment?” Ernest tilted his head.

            “My parent’s apartment. Here. In Chicago.” Jascha was already heading towards the coat closet. “I need to get things from there.”

            “Slow down,” Ernest laughed. Jascha frowned as Ernest pulled him away from the coat closet. His hands were very, very cold. “What’s there that you need?”

            “You’re very cold,” Jascha pulled him against his chest, holding his frigid hands in his warmer ones. “Are you sure it’s safe to run in the winter?”

            “Yes, it’s safe,” Ernest beamed at him. He was always so happy after working out, and it was unbearably cute. Jascha felt the quiet pull of a desire to abandon his plans and just cuddle with Ernest until he was warm again.

            “I just want to go,” Jascha said quietly. “There’s something there I want to give Henry for Christmas, and I can get more clothes and stuff.”

            “Did you call the apartment? Is someone there to let you in?” Ernest asked. Jascha hadn’t thought of that. He’d forgotten he no longer had a key.

            “I can call now,” Jascha fished his cellphone out of his pocket. He was allowed to use his hands for delicate tasks now, and he decided dialing a number counted. As he waited for someone to answer the line, Ernest put away his winter clothes.

            “Hello?” A young man’s voice said.

            “Hello, this is Jascha Simonis. Is this Kassia and Lukas Simonis’ residence?” Jascha paced. He was bad at talking on the phone while holding still.

            “Uh, it is their place, but like. My cousin is dead.” Harvey! Jascha smiled. It was his cousin on his mother’s side. “This is not a cool prank.”

            “No, Harvey, it’s really me,” Jascha said quickly. “I promise. I know it’s crazy, but I’m alive and okay.”

            “Tell me something only Jascha would know,” Harvey asked suspiciously.

            “You’re two years older than me, and you once helped me bury a dead squirrel because I wouldn’t stop crying and I couldn’t convince my mom to let me near it,” Jascha picked that one. It was nice and specific, and would be impossible for a random person to know.

            “...Where did you make me bury it?” Harvey asked skeptically.

            “Under the tomato plant in your mom’s garden,” Jascha said easily. “I said a prayer for it in Russian because it’s the only language I know them in.”

            “I mean,” Harvey balked. “It sounds like you? I guess?”

            “I know this is weird,” Jascha found Ernest and stood near him. His presence helped him feel calmer and less like a living corpse. “I just really need to get some stuff from my room.”

            “Did you call your mom?” Harvey said softly. “Your parents are kind of pretty fucked up. Like a lot.”

            “I…” Jascha struggled with words. He let Ernest pull him down on the stairs so they were sitting, and he closed his eyes as he felt the reassuring pressure of his hand against his own. “I tried. They’re in Russia, and I’m not sure if they’ll believe me.”

            “I mean, they might. I haven’t seen you, but if you look the same it’s probably going to be fine. You definitely sound the same.” Harvey paused. “Listen, I have to go to work in an hour. Can you meet me here before then? I can let you in, and you’ll just have to lock up once you’re done.”

            “Okay. Yeah. I’ll ask my friend to drive me,” Jascha nodded.

            “Sweet, see you in a bit.”

            Jascha closed the phone and felt all of his anxiety return to him. Harvey believed that it could be him, since he sounded the same and knew the same things, but what if he looked different enough to be considered ‘too different’? He loved Ernest’s family and he knew he would be happy to live with Ernest indefinitely, but he missed his own parents. What would he do if they rejected him? They’d never rejected him for anything before. Even his father, as scary in Jascha’s head as he was, had never been angry or upset with him before. Contrary to it, his father was always there when he needed him the most. And his mother...he was sure that he could have been a criminal or a bad person and she still would have loved him.

            “You okay?” Jascha was pulled from his thoughts by Ernest running a hand through his hair. He leaned against his touch. He had Ernest. Even if something went wrong, Ernest was there and he was even more reliable than his own heartbeat.

            “I’m a little nervous,” Jascha admitted. As always, it was impossible to get himself to lie or withhold anything from Ernest.

            “Dude, they’re gonna be so pumped to see you,” Ernest smiled and kissed his cheek. “I mean, what family doesn’t wish constantly that, like, their lost loved ones could come back?”

            Jascha felt something sink a bit. Ernest was still smiling, but there was a hue of sadness to it. His mother was who he was thinking about. He may have come back to life, but there was nothing that would bring back Ernest’s mom. He pulled Ernest into a hug.

            “I love you very much,” Jascha whispered.

            “I love you too,” Ernest said quietly. “We should probably go now if we need to meet your cousin in an hour.”

            “Mhm,” Jascha nodded. They both got up and pulled on all their winter clothes.

            Jascha didn’t talk much during the car ride. Per his request, Ernest was playing the classical music station. It wasn’t helping much, since it wasn’t a piece he really recognized or cared about, but it did fill up the silence. They parked in a parking garage a few blocks from his apartment and walked. It took all of Jascha’s resolve not to link arms or hold hands with Ernest. Even if, to them, this was the most natural thing, the outside world was filled with people like Mason.

            “This is my building,” Jascha said as they paused outside an old brick apartment building. He shifted slightly on his feet. He was scared to meet Harvey. What if he was too different? Did he tell Harvey what actually happened, or not? Then there was a new fear: What if Harvey saw through him and Ernest and treated them badly?

            “Okay,” Ernest touched his shoulder and brought Jascha back to himself. “It’s gonna be okay, babe,” he added quietly. Jascha looked at him, warmth and surprise filling his chest.

            “You called me babe,” Jascha said softly, aware that he sounded stupid. Ernest smiled and leaned against him for a second.

            “Let’s go,” Ernest said warmly.

            They walked up to the gate and buzzed for Harvey to let them in. All the while Jascha was trying to come up with a cover story: The EMTs had been wrong; he had been in a coma for a month. No, that wouldn’t explain Ernest. Ernest was his EMT? That could work. Maybe Harvey had no idea how he died. He couldn’t imagine his mother willingly talking about it. Oh wait, they were at the door. Ernest was looking at him. He had to knock.

            “One sec,” they heard someone say. In a moment the door opened, and there was Harvey. He looked more like Jascha’s mother than his own, with his light brown hair and green eyes. He smiled as he saw them. “Holy fuck, it’s actually you.”

            “Yes.” Jascha suddenly had no idea how language worked. Luckily, he didn’t need to think about it. Harvey pulled him into a bone-crunching hug.

            “I can’t fucking believe it,” Harvey said softly. “How the hell are you alive? Aunt Kassia said you bled to death. How the fuck?”

            “I, uh. Got put back together,” Jascha wanted to bite off his own tongue. Why couldn’t his parents have been cool, edgy people who could have taught him how to lie? “Experimental trials. At the med school. And it worked.”

            “That’s amazing!” Harvey beamed as he pulled away, grabbing Jascha’s face in his hands. “Look at you! You look the same! You still have the same baby deer face and everything! I can’t believe it. Your parents are going to be so fucking happy!”

            “I don’t look like a baby deer,” Jascha pouted slightly.

            “You kinda do,” Ernest said affectionately, drawing Harvey’s attention to him.

            “Hey, I’m Harvey,” he said, shaking Ernest’s hand. He looked back to Jascha. “I didn’t know you, like, had friends.”

            “That’s not fair,” Jascha frowned. “I have plenty of friends. Ernest is my best friend.”

            “If he’s your best friend, why am I only hearing about him now?” Harvey smiled, raising an eyebrow. Jascha frowned.

            “I don’t have to tell you everything,” Jascha said defensively.

            “But you always did,” Harvey smirked.

            “Maybe.” Jascha conceded. It was true; other than his mom, Harvey knew the most. “Can we come in? I want to grab some things.”

            “Sure, come in,” Harvey stepped aside, ushering them both inside. Jascha breathed in deeply and almost cried. He hadn’t smelled anything that smelled like home until now. The small apartment was adorned in the scent of wood and earl grey tea, with a faint splash of his mother’s favorite perfume. He walked inside, running a hand over the baby grand piano that took up nearly half of the living room. There were pictures of him and his family everywhere, starting with his parents' wedding and ending as recently as the poster for Jascha’s last concert, which was laying across the couch. He glanced to Ernest, who was also looking at all the pictures.

            “Dude, you were the cutest baby,” Ernest said with a smile. He was looking at a picture from his first violin lesson. Jascha was maybe three in it.

            “All babies are cute,” Jascha said absently. He wandered over towards the bedrooms. The door to his parents’ room was open, but his was closed. He tested the door and found it unlocked. His room was perfectly untouched. All his posters from different concerts he either played or attended were still up. His bookshelf, which housed all his CDs and recorded performances, were the same save for a fine layer of dust. He startled when he felt a hand touch his back.

            “It’s me,” Ernest said softly. “This is your room?”

            “Yup,” Jascha nodded. He glanced behind Ernest to see if Harvey was watching. Finding them alone, he took Ernest’s hand.

            “Is it safe…?” Ernest looked at him nervously.

            “I think so,” Jascha whispered. “I can let go, if you want,” he added. Ernest shook his head and gave his hand a squeeze.

            “What are we looking for?” Ernest smiled.

            “Henry V. It should be a tape, from a summer camp I went to when I was seventeen.”

            “Like, a play?” Ernest cocked his head. “You did acting?”

            “I...yes.” Jascha blushed.

            “What part did you play?” Ernest got a gleam to his eye.

            “Henry V.” Jascha said quickly. It was one of his better performances, if he said so himself. The role had been difficult to learn, but he thought he did very well. “I’ll look over here if you can look through those shelves,” Jascha pointed at the smaller bookcase, which seemed to hold more tapes. He walked over to the CD shelf. He grabbed a recording of his mother playing the Rachmaninoff piano concerto in C-minor. He missed hearing her play. It had been a constant soundtrack to his childhood, and he only just realized how much he felt its absence.

            “Jascha, what’s this?” Jascha turned back to Ernest, who was grinning like a cat.

            “What’s what?” Jascha walked over. His pulse froze. It was the pas de deux from Manon, a dance he agreed to do in his sophomore year of college. “Oh, that’s not for you.”

            “Why not?” Ernest made a show of frowning, but Jascha could see the smile in his eyes.

            “It just isn’t,” Jascha tried to get the DVD out of his hands, but Ernest was faster.

            “It’s just ballet, right?” Ernest smiled wickedly. “I want to see.”

            “It’s...ballet,” Jascha said hesitantly. “But it’s not normal ballet.”

            “I think you should let me watch it,” Ernest grinned.

            Jascha sighed. “It really shouldn’t be seen.”

            “Why not?” Ernest asked.

            “My friend Cleo did the choreography. It was supposed to be done with her boyfriend.” Jascha said carefully. It only made Ernest grin more.

            “Oh? So it’s, like, romantic ballet?” Ernest laughed.

            “It’s a lot. I think you should leave it here,” Jascha pleaded. He desperately hoped Ernest would lose interest and leave it on the shelf. The Manon pas de deux was nothing short of pornographic by ballet standards. He’d only agreed to do it because Cleo was upset with her boyfriend and Jascha wanted her to feel better.

            “Or it could be your Christmas gift to me,” Ernest smirked. “I mean, what else were you going to get me?”

             Well-played, Jascha thought. He ran a hand through his hair. “Fine. You can have it. But you can’t watch it until Christmas. And you have to let me wrap it for you.”

             “Deal!” Ernest said contentedly. “Also, here’s the thing you were looking for,” Ernest handed him the tape. Henry V. Jascha smiled and took it happily.

            “Cool,” Jascha wandered over to the dresser. “I’m also going to grab some of my clothes. Can you hand me that suitcase?”

            “Sure,” Ernest grabbed the small carry-on bag from beside the bed, bringing it over to him. Jascha shoved several pairs of underwear and socks into it, and then moved onto the more difficult task of picking out which clothes he wanted to bring. He grabbed a flannel shirt, his Juilliard hoodie, a Tanglewood t-shirt, and a couple of his favorite button-ups. Unlike the new ones Ernest bought him, these were nice and soft. He also put a sweater his grandmother knit for him in the bag. It was elaborate, and had little snowflakes on it, as well as matryoshka dolls and reindeer. He knew it probably fell in the category of ugly Christmas sweaters, but he loved it. He placed an additional two pairs of jeans and a pair of pajama pants in the suitcase before zipping it up. He turned back to Ernest.

            “Okay. I have everything except my winter coat, but I think that’s in the closet,” Jascha said happily. He carried the suitcase back out into the living room. Harvey was sitting on the couch, and he smiled when he and Ernest came in.

            “Got everything?” He asked.

            “Yup. Except for my coat.” Jascha walked to the closet. Sure enough, his big green winter jacket was there, as well as his mittens. He got them both and carried them under his arm. “Okay, we can go now,” he said to Ernest. Harvey stood and walked over to him as well, giving him another hug.

            “I’m so happy you’re okay,” Harvey said softly. “And it’s great that you have a boyfriend.” Jascha pulled away quickly.

            “What?” He laughed nervously. “Ernest is just a friend.” Jascha glanced anxiously to Ernest, who had his jaw clenched and looked like he was ready to run at a moment’s notice.

            “It’s okay, Jascha,” Harvey patted him on the shoulder. “I’m not as dumb as you think. Also, the last person you described as being your ‘best friend’ was Cleo, and we both know what that meant.” Jascha frowned, but Harvey smiled. “Dude, I work at a nightclub. I don’t care if you’re gay or into both or whatever. Besides, he seems sweet enough,” Harvey said gently, smiling back at Ernest. Jascha relaxed as he saw Ernest relax.

            “He...might be my partner,” Jascha blushed. He hadn’t said that out loud to anyone before, even if it was true. “Do you think my mom will mind?”

            “Aunt Kassia?” Harvey asked. “I don’t think so. She’s a musician, and I know she has gay friends.”

            “And my dad?” Jascha looked at his feet. His father was Russian. Russia was not known for being especially accepting.

            “He listens to your mom. And he loves you,” Harvey said easily. “I think he’d come around, though it might be hard at first.” Jascha nodded.

            “Okay,” Jascha sighed. “That makes sense. Yeah.” He felt a little better once Ernest was by his side. “We should go.”

            “Yeah, me too,” Harvey said lightly. “Call your parents. You have their number, right?”

            “I do,” Jascha nodded.

            “I’ll vouch for your existence if they don’t believe you,” Harvey said gently.

            “Thanks,” Jascha smiled, hugging Harvey one last time before they left.

            Once outside, Jascha couldn’t stop smiling. He held the recording of his mother’s concerto against his chest. He didn’t even care that Ernest had the Manon piece now; he was too happy about having seen Harvey and being reassured that it was okay that he was in love with a boy. If Harvey thought his parents would be okay, that probably meant they would be. Besides, how could anyone dislike Ernest? He was sweet and beautiful and had adorable freckles.

            Ernest unlocked the car and Jascha put his suitcase in the back. “Can we listen to this CD on the way home?” Jascha asked.

            “Yeah, absolutely,” Ernest smiled. “Is it one of yours?”

            Jascha shook his head. “It’s my mom.”

            Ernest took the CD case from him, looking at the picture on the front. It was a black and white picture of his mother seated at a piano, smiling faintly at the camera. “She’s really pretty,” Ernest said lightly. “You look like her.”

            “You haven’t seen my dad,” Jascha said wistfully. “I look even more like him.”

            Ernest turned on the car and pressed play. Jascha closed his eyes, imagining his mother’s face as she played. She always knew exactly what emotions to channel into a piece, and it was what made her such a phenomenal performer. He’d been lucky to have grown up with her as an instructor; she taught him early on how to find and capture feelings into music.

            “Are you okay?” Ernest asked gently. Jascha opened his eyes as he felt Ernest’s hand on his knee. He realized his eyes were wet, and he wiped them quickly.

            “I’m okay,” Jascha said quietly. “I just really miss my mom.”

            “We can call her when we get home, if you want,” Ernest found Jascha’s hand and squeezed it lightly. Jascha glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Five pm. It was midnight in Moscow. Besides, he wasn’t ready. He needed at least another fourteen hours to panic and plan for the phone call.

            “It’s very late at night in Russia,” Jascha lifted Ernest’s hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. “Besides, I can’t handle that call tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

            “Sounds good,” Ernest smiled softly. “Do you want me to be there with you when you call them? I can help you plan out what you’re gonna say.”

            Jascha nodded. “I want you with me. And it would help if we could plan.”

            “Your mom is like. Really good at the piano,” Ernest smiled. “I guess talent runs in your family, huh?”

            “Mhm,” Jascha beamed. “She’s the best. You’ll love her, I think.”

            “Will she love me?” Ernest asked, a trace of anxiety entering his voice. Jascha rubbed gentle circles into the back of his hand.

            “Yes, I think so,” Jascha said warmly. “She always wanted me to have good friends. And I think she would be happy that I have someone nice that loves me.”

            “I do love you,” Ernest smiled, watching the road.

            “I love you, too,” Jascha said contentedly. He was still frustrated that the words never quite felt like an adequate expression of how much he loved Ernest, but they would have to do. At least until they were home and he could combine them with touch. Hopefully soon he could play violin again. Then he’d be able to play for Ernest, showing him how much he meant to him in the language he trusted the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***VERY SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT***
> 
> We are very excited to announce that we've been working hard on another long-form fic that we'll be releasing tomorrow!!
> 
> "Tender is the Night" is a reinterpretation of Hamlet set in 2014 where all of the main characters are theater students. If you like emotionally fraught relationships, angst, hurt and comfort, and ghosts, then this is the fic for you!
> 
> KnightVanguard writes Ophelia, Timeandspace writes Horatio, and Woolfsbane writes Hamlet!
> 
> We plan on updating two times a week on the off days of SOM and we have a huge backlog so there will be very regular updates for a long time!! As always, trigger warnings will be tagged in the beginning of each chapter. We hope you check us out !! :D
> 
> Find it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20444984/chapters/48507053


	43. Ups and Downs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry goes to the aquarium. Victor makes art. Jascha calls home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! As always, thanks for sticking with us for so long! It means so much to read your comments. If you're new here, reach out! You can find us on tumblr @moth-femme (Woolfsbane), knightvanguard, and time-and-space-in-your-face.
> 
> Trigger warnings this chapter for descriptions of panic attacks and grief.

        “Do you love me?” Henry hadn’t meant to actually say it, but the uncomfortable silence had stretched on for hours and now it was night and he couldn’t possibly fathom sleeping. His ear was pressed to Victor’s chest and he listened intently to the beating of his heart. He could have sworn it stuttered when he spoke.

        “Of course I do,” Victor whispered as he ran his fingers through Henry’s hair. He could tell Victor was scared by the way he hesitated at his hairline. “I love you. I’ve loved you since we were sixteen.”

        “You said nothing was real,” Henry tightened his grip around Victor’s waist. He felt him exhale and forget to inhale again. He rocked himself against Victor’s chest before he took the cue. The feeling of Victor’s arms wrapped around his torso tethered him to earth.

        “I know...I...Henry,” Victor stammered, looking for the right words. “I’m saying it now and this is real.” He buried his face into Henry’s hair. “I love you and you’re real. I love you so much.”

        Henry could feel his soul long to rip itself from his flesh and fling itself into the void, but it couldn’t because Victor held him and he was safe. He was safe. He was real.

        “Can you try to breathe with me again?” Victor asked. Man, how pathetic was Henry. He couldn’t even recognize his own panic attacks. Pathetic. He nodded against Victor’s sternum. “Okay, in through your nose, out through your mouth. There you go,” he soothed. “You taught me that.”

        Henry’s heart rate returned to a more or less normal pace once he allowed himself to take in oxygen. Victor’s limbs were heavy and warm against his back. “I’m sorry for panicking,” he whispered. “I should be over it.”

        “No, it makes sense,” Victor moved a hand to cradle the back of his neck. “But you’re safe now. I want...I want to keep you safe.”

        “I am safe here,” Henry repeated, finding real comfort in the words. “Do you want to do something fun tomorrow?”

        “What?”

        “Something fun and normal. I think...I don’t know, it might help if I’m not constantly dwelling on...things that scare me.” Henry shrank into Victor’s body and wished that he was small enough to be completely cocooned in Victor’s limbs.

        “Did you have an idea?” He asked.

        “Maybe the international surgery museum, or whatever it’s called? Maybe the aquarium? I don’t know. Something artsy and academic.” He tried to shrug but couldn’t move overly much.

        “You?” Victor laughed, “want to take me to a surgery museum? I don’t think that’s a great idea for either of us or Jascha. Let’s maybe take the aquarium this time and save that monster for later.”

        Henry started laughing too. “Do you remember when you used to correct the exhibits when we were kids?”

        “What? They were wrong.”

        “It was the children’s section.”

        “It’s wrong to present misinformation to children.”

        Henry giggled so hard against Victor’s stomach that the other man started laughing because it tickled. “Aquarium it is. I want to see the jellies.”

        “I want to practice drawing,” Victor said and it kinda through Henry for a loop.

        “Drawing?”

        “Yeah,” Victor shrugged, “I drew the thing for William and forgot that I kinda liked it.”

        “That’s really sweet. I’ll ask your dad if he can drive us there tomorrow,” Henry shifted off of Victor and curled against his side.

        “What do you mean? Can’t you just-“ Victor stopped himself.

        Henry just smiled sadly into his shoulder. “I drove myself into a tree, remember? I don’t think Alphonse would want me driving one of his nice cars.”

        “It’s not the cars, it’s you,” Victor said seriously. He propped himself on his forearms so he could look Henry in his eyes. “He doesn’t want you to get hurt. The cars can be replaced. You can’t.”

        “Hey, I’m a self healing organism. I’m getting pretty good at it,” Henry tried to laugh.

        “I’m serious. You’re worth more to us, to everyone, than cars or a mess or anything.” Victor held Henry’s hands tight in his own. “I know I talk shit about Konig a lot, but he really is a good therapist. Maybe you should try to get one, too. It’ll help.”

        Henry tried to hide his face, but Victor wouldn’t let him. “I had...tried to talk about it with Alphonse...but then stuff happened and Waldman happened and...I don’t know if I can do that.”

        “I can help. Dad can help. I just think or hope it might help.” Victor stroked Henry’s hair.

        “What if it’s that bad again?” He asked, shrinking at the trembling in his own voice.

        “My dear, it will never be that bad ever again. Dad would never let that happen to you. Not in a million years.”

        “I just don’t trust...anyone,” Henry held himself tight to Victor’s shoulder.

        “Someday you will. Not everyone in the world is as bad.”

        Henry heard the implicit  as me . “You’re not bad,” he said. “Bad people don’t try to help with this,” he said, gesturing to himself.

        “I didn’t say…”

        “Yeah, but you meant it,” Henry curled in on himself, desperate to not cry in front of Victor for the third time that day. He gently worked his hands past Henry’s crossed arms and pressed his palm against his heart.

        “Sleep. You’re exhausted.” He pressed a soft kiss to Henry’s ear.

        “What if I have bad dreams?” He whispered. He didn’t even register having the thought before it came out of his mouth.

        “I’ll protect you and tomorrow will be better.”

        Henry relaxed into the feeling of Victor’s forehead pressed against his own. The rise and fall of his chest lulled him against the fears that rang in his own head.

        The next day was better and Alphonse did drive them to the aquarium. Apparently Victor was no longer under house arrest, though maybe he never was. He did tend to impose these things on himself. They ate cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate for lunch and generally lived in the lap of absolute bliss.

        “Why are they moving around so fast?” Victor grumbled as they watched a tank full of sea lions fight over a watermelon. Henry watched as he filled page after page with quick drawings of the monsters.

        “It’s just what they do,” Henry shrugged. “Those are nice gesture drawings. You really captured the heart and soul of the one trying to flip over into its front,” he giggled as he tapped the top left corner of the sketchbook.

        “I want anatomical drawings. Vein and muscle structure, all that jazz.” Victor stuffed a pencil in his back pocket and prepared to move into the next exhibit.

        “You’re such a scientist—“ Henry was about to say something else, but he was filed through the unbreakable strings of fate to the touch-tank. “Victor. Cownose rays.” His eyes were the size of saucers. “Sea pancakes.”

        “You are a nerd,” Victor rolled his eyes, but he smiled and that was all Henry saw.

        “I’m gonna pet one. You should too. They’re like small, slippery cats.” Henry rolled up his sleeve and shoved his hand into the water, effectively scaring off any previously-interested rays.

        “No, thank you. I don’t do organisms touching me.” Victor crossed his arms in front of his chest.

        “I’m an organism and I touch you fairly frequently.” Henry out in his best puppy dog eyes. “Please, just for a minute. I just know you’ll find the feeling of their skin scientifically interesting.”

        Victor barely placed his hand over the water, not even in, and he was mobbed by a whole school of the rays. Henry stood starstruck and Victor basically jumped a mile away from the tank.

        “It wanted to eat me!” He half-shouted “My hand was in it’s weird little mouth.”

        “It’s not going to eat you,” Henry smiled and put his hand back in the water.

        “I am so sorry,” an aquarium worker jogged up to greet them. “You’re wearing a shirt that’s the same color as the bucket we use to food-train them. They’re usually not this much trouble.”

        “Oh, it's fine,” Henry said with a wave of his hand. “This one’s just a scaredy cat.”

        “Am not,” Victor huffed as Henry pulled him back to the water’s edge. He took his hand and placed it gently just under the surface of the water and a small ray swam up to them.

        “See, they’re just sweet flip-flappies,” Henry beamed at the water.

        “Why is it soft? I feel like it shouldn’t be soft.”

        “I don’t know, my man. You’re  the  scientist.” Henry smiled as the ray nuzzled the palm of Victor’s hand. “See, he likes you.”

        “He likes the taste of my flesh.”

        “Actually, they only really eat soft shell clams,” the worker cut in.

        “See, the last time I checked, you weren't a clam.” Henry leaned into Victor’s shoulder.

        “Weird little stingrays,” he muttered.

        “Cownose rays actually aren’t stingrays. They belong to their own family of ray!” The worker started excitedly.  

        In truth, Henry wasn’t listening in the slightest, he just really wanted Victor to be informed about the realities of being a cownose ray. It must be a hard life, flapping everywhere, accidentally being called a shark. Migrating. It was pretty dreadful actually. It was helpful to him. For science. Clearly.

        “Thank you so much for that long and informative talk,” Victor said as he tried to subtly drag Henry away from the tank. “We’re going to go look for the jellyfish now.”

        “Jellies!” Henry perked up. “I love jellies!” He saw the faintest flicker of a smile flash across Victor’s face.

        In order to get there, they had to pass through a large tube through the shark enclosure. Henry remembered spending literal hours there as a kid so that Victor could make fun of all the sharks. There was one old sand tiger shark that had really strange, snaggly teeth that Victor has insisted was the reincarnation of their teacher from second grade.

        “Hello Ms. Herrison, it’s nice to see you,” Victor whispered. So he did remember too. Henry suddenly had to fight the intense urge to fling himself at Victor and never let go ever again. Maybe it was the memories or the sharks or whatever, but Henry felt warmth and golden light thrumming in his chest. In any case, he had to keep that locked inside, or else he would scare the jellies.

        “Why do you call them that?” Victor asked.

        “Call who what?”

        “Jellies,” Victor stopped just short of the entrance to the jellies’ section.

        “That’s just what they are. They’re not fish. They are sea jellies.” Henry was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

        “And I bet you call starfish sea stars too,” Victor scoffed.  

        “As should you, Mr. Scientist,” Henry laughed and pulled Victor towards the exhibit.

        The jellies were in a dark room, lit mostly with blacklight. It made the white’s of victor’s eyes glow purple. Tanks upon tanks of different, candy colored cnidarians lined the wall. They flowed in lazy circles as they were pushed by the current. Henry kept holding Victor’s hand as they spent a few minutes in front of each tank.

        Henry left the light bubbling up in his heart again. He wanted to bury himself in Victor’s chest and let him know how much he loved him. A few children ran around them and bumped into the walls. Henry giggled.

        “You really like them, don’t you,” Victor said with mild distaste.

        “Jellies? You know I do,” Henry bobbed along to the next tank.

        “Children,” he averted his face and Henry spun around to look at him.

        “Yeah, I do,” Henry let the easy smile return to his face. “They’re small and sweet and they don’t know anything yet. I just can’t wait--” No, he couldn’t say that. Not now.  I just can’t wait until I have my own.  The odds of that were so slim that he hadn’t thought about that in months. He really didn’t need to introduce that stressor to Victor. He shouldn’t even think about it. There was no way that Victor would ever be down with having kids. They didn’t even have jobs yet, or a house. If it ever were to happen, and it probably wouldn’t, it was a long, long way in the future.  

        “Henry, you’re going to be a great father someday,” Victor whispered.

        “With you?” Shit. Fuck. He couldn’t even stick to his own plan. Henry felt something inside his ribcage break as he frantically searched Victor’s face for some hint of a reaction. It was hard to see through the dark. He really didn’t mean to ask that. If he said literally anything else it would have been better than saying that. His internal monologue dissolved into mild screaming on the note A flat.

        “If you’ll have me.” Victor’s voice barely filled the space between his mouth and Henry’s ear.

        “I will.” There was a soft lull in the conversation, delicate enough to wrap a fairy in. “But like, not now. We’ve got to get our shit together first,” Henry laughed nervously and Victor joined him.

        “Oh yeah, no. There is now way we could possibly...yeah, that’s a later thing,” Victor still held Henry’s hand and leaned his head against his shoulder. There was no one around.

        “Can I kiss you?” Henry asked, surprised by his own voice.  

        “Yes,” Victor’s voice was as breathless as his own.

        It was in that moment when Henry realized that they almost never kissed when the both of them were standing up because he was just so tall. He wrapped his arms around Victor’s waist and pulled him until he was on his tiptoes. Victor’s lips were soft and warm and sang with sunshine. It was over too soon and Victor relaxed against Henry’s chest. The gentle rush of water and the darkness enveloped them in a bubble of comfort.

        “Kiss me gently in front of the comb jellies, darling,” Victor laughed quietly into Henry’s chest. He pressed a kiss to Victor’s dark hair and never wanted to move again.

 

* * *

  

            “What do you think?”

            Victor paused and glanced up to William, who stood over him, looking proud. Victor set aside the vial and syringe and glanced down at the paper that had been slapped down in front of him. It was a brightly colored drawing of a man in a golden chest plate and a sweeping red cape. Victor raised an eyebrow as he recognized a pair of bright amber eyes shining from beneath the hero’s helmet and a wisp of blondish hair draped over his forehead.

            “Is that-”

            “Shh!” William slapped a hand over his mouth as both glanced to Henry who, thankfully, hadn’t looked up from his thesis work. “You have to be quiet.” William hissed.

            Victor licked William’s palm.

            “Gross!” William yanked his hand away and made a face at Victor, who snorted to himself.

            “You two okay?” Henry asked, finally looking up and between Victor and William. The younger boy froze on the spot but Victor just passed over an easy smile.

            “Yup. Willy here was just showing me a new drawing.” Victor leaned forward, obscuring the image from Henry’s view. “Dear, could you go get me a snack?”

            “Uh, sure…” Henry glanced between Victor and William once more, doubtfully, as he stood. Victor dialed his smile up a shade and added a touch of innocence to his eyes in an attempt to cancel out the glare he could see William aiming at him from his peripheral. As Henry walked past him, Victor grabbed his hand and planted a soft kiss on it.

            “Love you.” He said.

            Henry returned his smile charmingly. “Love you too.”

            He waited exactly three seconds after Henry had exited the dining room to uncover the drawing again.

            “Don’t call me Willy.” William said angrily.

            “It’s your name.” Victor replied absently as he examined the details of the drawing. It was a good rendition, he had to say, especially for a twelve-year-old. William had a very strong grasp of muscle distribution and the face, as a whole, was fairly symmetrical.

            “No,” William said, “my name is William. Not  Willy .” He spat the last word with disgust.

            “Willy, William,” Victor waved a vague hand, “to-may-to, to-mah-to.”

            William crossed his arms huffily then relaxed, his face slowly worked itself into a subtle grin. “Well, in that case, I guess it doesn’t matter. Vicky.”

            Victor briefly considered how easy it would be to kill William. The kid hadn’t hit any kind of real growth spurt yet, after all. He could probably drown him in the sink, no trouble, no real struggle. Victor looked away and picked up the syringe by his elbow once more, twisting the plunger back in and testing it. A thin film of water droplets spread across the table. “So what did you need, William?”

            William pulled the chair out and plopped down beside him. “Does it look like Henry?”

            “Well, the cheekbone shape is a bit…” he paused and considered William’s intent expression. “It look perfect to me.”

            “Really?” William asked. He pulled the drawing back towards himself. “I thought the cheekbones were a bit high.”

            “Hm.” Victor leaned in next to him and ran a finger along the edge of the character’s face. “If you just soften the lines right there, I think it’ll loosen the sharpness. This is Henry as Hector, right?”

            “Yup!” William said excitedly. “I’m drawing everyone as the characters they were in laser tag for Christmas.”

            “Ugh, does that mean I’m going to have to see Ernest in a toga?” Victor pulled an exaggerated grimace, which broke into a laugh as William slapped his shoulder.

            “Don’t be mean.” He chided.

            “When am I ever mean?” Victor asked. “I am a beacon of goodness and light!”

            “Um, no, that’s Uncle Henry. You’re a daemon kere.” William said as he stole one of Victor’s pencils and began making notes along the edge of the sheet. “Any other suggestions?”

            “Not sure.” Victor shot William a questioning glance. “Maybe add a backdrop. Something dramatic, like a ray of sun. Why do you ask anyway?”

            “Well…” William wrote  sunbeam?  in tiny script, “you made me that drawing for my birthday so I figured it would be good to come to you for art advice. Plus, you know Uncle Henry really well.”

            “Yeah,” Victor shifted in his seat, “I’m not that good an artist though. I stopped really practicing around your age. I’ve mostly just kept up with it to do anatomy sketches.”

            “Why did you stop?” William asked.

            “Don’t know.” Victor shrugged. “Just kinda did. It was around the age I started getting into medicine so, you know, I guess I got distracted? ‘Sides,” he reached into the bag by his feet and yanked out a slender needle, holding it up to the light, “I’m not much for the humanities.”

            “‘Cause you’re boring.” William said sympathetically.

            “No, not ‘cause I’m-” Victor bit himself off as Henry reentered the room, both he and William scrambling to hide the drawing once more. Henry’s brows traveled near to his hairline at the sight of Victor and William draped halfway across the table.

            He placed honey toast by Victor’s seat. “Do I need to step out again?”

            “Nah.” Victor offered him a cocky grin. “I thought I saw a spider. False alarm, it was some lint.” Victor wiggled his way off the table’s edge and stood up. He couldn’t help but stare as Henry’s honey-colored hair caught the light and his faint smattering of freckles sparkled. Though he was forced to get back on tip-toes to reach Henry, he still managed to catch the other in a deep kiss, running one hand through the back of his silky hair. As he sank into the feeling of Henry’s soft lips, he waved a hand behind his back, hoping William got the message.

            By the time they broke, the  Henry Hector  was nowhere to be seen. Henry blushed slightly as he spotted William still sitting by the dining room table. “I, uh…sorry, William.”

            “He’s fine!” Victor said dismissively as he snatched a piece of toast. “Kid’s seen so much worse.”

            “He has?” Henry asked, concern and dread crystal in every syllable.

            “He lived through my teenage years, didn’t he?”

            William stared into Henry’s eyes and smiled. “I’ve been traumatized.” He said brightly.

            Victor aimed a thumbs up at him.

            “Right…” Henry gave Victor another pained glance. He could practically see the other man rethinking his declaration that he wanted to have kids with Victor.

As he sat back with his thesis work, William darted around the table to plop down beside him. “Uncle Henry, can you come help me with something?”

            Henry smiled apologetically as he jotted a brief note down in his book. “Sorry, bud, I’ve really got to get through this section today.”

            “But it’s Christmas!” William whined as he tugged on Henry’s arm. “Besides, it’ll only take ten minutes!”

            “Speaking of Christmas,” Victor interrupted, “what do you want?”

            “Books.” William said, attention still entirely devoted to making it impossible for Henry to write by shaking his arm.

            “Cool. I’m getting you a beginner’s guide to colposcopies.”

            “Then I’ll get you a book on Degas.” William quipped. “Do you want his artwork with the ballerinas or the racing horses?”

            “Henry, I’m being bullied!”

            “Okay, okay,” Henry laughed as he was hauled to his feet, “relax you two.” As William dragged him past the table, he eyed Victor and his needles. “Be back!” He called. “Don’t stab yourself while I’m gone!”

            “No promises!” Victor immediately fumbled the nearest needle and cursed, thankful that William had left the room. He couldn’t be too upset though, not while he was still riding the emotional high of the aquarium trip. Henry wanted to have kids. With  him.  That was incredible! And so fucking anxiety inducing! God, it was a good thing they’d never have to worry about accidental pregnancy. That would absolutely push Victor over an edge.

            He set the syringe he had nearly dropped aside and took another bite of toast as he surveyed the vial of electric blue fluid in front of him. He held up the solution to the light and let it reflect and refract, casting blue shadows across the room once more. He carefully filled up the last needle in front of him and secured all eight in their case. Out of the corner of his eye, Victor spotted hesitant movement in the hall.

            “Jascha,” the man slowed reluctantly, casting Victor a nervous look as he approached. “Pass these off to Ernest for me?” He handed over the still-open case.

            Jascha held object like a set of expensive china, balancing it on top of his arm braces. “The arm ones are bigger than usual.” He said blankly.

            “Yes.” Victor confirmed. “I adjusted the formula a bit. Ernest mentioned in passing that you were being a baby about taking the shots.” He paused at Jascha’s small wince. “Or, well…more accurately, he expressed passing concern that they were overly painful and since the goal of these injections is to alleviate your pain not increase it, I tweaked things a bit. These last two doses should hurt less but you need more of the solution to make them work.”

            “Okay.” Jascha said slowly. “I’ll, uh...I’ll tell him.”

            “Cool.” Victor shoved his hands in his pockets and took a deliberate step back. “See you.”

            “Yup. See you.”

            Victor watched him go, feeling his good mood leaking out his shoes. He set his jaw. “Hey, Jascha!” He called. He swallowed as the man actually stopped, suddenly aware that he hadn’t  actually  planned what he wanted to say. “Uh. William’s…I was thinking of getting William a book on the archeology of Athens. For Christmas.”

            “Yeah?” Jascha asked uncertainly, quite obviously confused on where the conversation was going. Not that Victor knew either.

            “Yup.” Victor shuffled his feet, daring himself not to break eye contact. “If you were looking for something to get him I can give you the name. It should be at the local Barnes and Noble.”

            “I…sure?” Jascha said. “I thought you just said you were going to get it through?”

            “I’ll find something else.” Victor ducked back into the dining room and, stealing a bit of notepaper from Henry’s station, scribbled down the title and author. He walked back to the hall and offered it to Jascha carefully, mindful of the needles in his hand. “Let me know if you use it.”

            “Alright.” Jascha said slowly. He glanced back to the living room. “See you?”

            “See you.” Victor raised an awkward hand, realized it was awkward, and dropped it.

By the time Henry returned to the room, Victor was knee deep in a new drawing.

            Henry tried to peer over Victor’s shoulder but he blocked his view. “Nope.” He said lightly. “You’re not allowed to look at this one.”

            “C’mon, why?” Henry pouted. “Nobody wants to show me their work.”

            Victor smiled. “You can see it in a few days. In the meantime,” he stole another pencil from Henry’s pile, “read me whatever you’re working on.”

            “You want to hear about the courtship rituals in 1855 America?” Henry asked amusedly.

            “Uh, no, not in the least. But I do want to hear your voice. And about flower language.”

            “Nerd.”

            “Hey, I’m not the one doing homework over break.” Victor said affectionately.

            As Henry read, Victor edited the words out, focusing on the way his voice fell and rose with excitement, getting caught and pinched on little phrases and beats, twists and turns. The familiar hum lulled him as he worked to remember how proper shading worked.

 

* * *

  

        Victor and Henry were back from the aquarium earlier than Jascha expected. Or rather, they left earlier. And so obviously they’d be back earlier. Victor surprised him when he called out, and honestly the larger needle was the least of his concerns. He and Ernest had agreed that he would call Russia at exactly one in the afternoon. And that was in fifteen minutes. It would be nine in Moscow, which meant dinner would be wrapping up and his parents were likely to be home. It wasn’t that close to the holidays for them either, since they followed the Russian Orthodox calendar while living with his grandmother.

        He found Ernest in the living room where he left him, shoving the syringes into his hands. “From Victor.”

        “Oh? Cool.” Ernest looked at them. “I’m gonna run upstairs and put them in the box.”

        “Mhm.” Jascha nodded. He couldn’t convince himself to sit. That would be hard, and he’d be faced with no outlet for his rapidly mounting anxiety.

        “Babe?” Jascha’s attention snapped back to Ernest at the mention of the term of endearment. Ernest watched him with wide, anxious eyes.

        “Yes?” Jascha asked.

        “I asked if you were ready to call,” Ernest smiled gently, reaching up and fixing his hair. Jascha blinked. He absolutely wasn’t ready.

        “Yup.” Jascha forced himself to speak, and held up the phone. “I have the number.”

        “Okay,” Ernest squeezed his arm. “I’ll be back in a few.”

        Jascha paced. Holding still was hard. He looked at the clock. Five minutes. He should really start dialing now. It might take time to connect. But he needed Ernest. Or maybe having Ernest would be worse. He should go and hide in a closet or something. Somewhere nice and dark and quiet and alone where he could curl up and die if it went badly.

        12:58. Jascha stared at the clock, daring it to change. Maybe, just maybe, if he thought about it hard enough the clock would break and then he’d have an excuse for not calling. 12:59. Fuck, time was still working. He sat down, panic making him light-headed. That was fun. He hadn’t had anxiety-induced fainting spells since high school. He opened his phone, mechanically scrolling through his contacts.  _Močiutė_ , the number read.  Grandma . He held his breath and waited. 1:00. He hit call.

        He barely even noticed when Ernest came back. He was frozen, listening as the line rang. It felt unreal; he couldn’t actually talk to someone in Russia on a cell phone, right? Like, that wasn't a thing. Phones aren’t real. How did he even have one again?

         _“Hello?”_ He heard his grandmother’s voice. Right. Lithuanian. He could do this.

         _“Hi, Grandma,”_ he said shakily. He felt Ernest rest a hand on his knee, which was bouncing rapidly.

         _“Jashen’ka?”_ His grandmother asked incredulously.

         _“Yeah,”_ Jascha nodded. He heard someone talking in the background, and his grandmother pulled away from the receiver. He heard her yell that she was talking to her grandson. Someone asked if it was Nikolai. Nope, she said, Jashen’ka. Then there was yelling, and jostling, and before he had a chance to prepare he heard a new voice.

        “Jascha?” His mother. Jascha heard his mother’s voice, thin and weak. He swallowed hard. “Who is this?”

        “M-mom.” Jascha said stiffly. “It’s me. Jascha.”

        “No, that can’t be,” his mother’s voice cracked. Jascha bit his lip as he heard her crying. There was more jostling, and a man’s voice.

        _“_ _Who is this? _ _”_ His father asked sharply in Russian. _“_ _You’re an absolute bastard, playing tricks on grieving parents."_

        “Dad!” Jascha cried out. “ No, it’s actually me! ”

_ “My son is dead_ _.”_ His father said firmly. _“_ _We were there when he died .” _

        “Please, Dad, I know it’s insane.” Jascha tried to hold back the sobs, but he was quickly failing. _“_ _I know it’s insane. I know. Please- ” _

        “Lukas!” He heard his mother cry out, and she must have torn the phone out of his hands. “Please. You need to tell me if this is a trick,” his mother’s voice was hoarse and almost unfamiliar in it’s grief. “You need to tell me.”

        “It’s not a trick,” Jascha sobbed. Ernest had pulled him so that he was more or less laying against his chest. “I promise. It’s me.”

        “I heard his heart stop,” his mom said bitterly. “There was nothing-”

        _“_ _Leave my wife alone _ _,”_ his dad hissed in Russian. _“_ _ We came here to grieve, not to be mocked."_ Jascha covered his eyes with his free hand. He knew he was hyperventilating a bit, because Ernest was quietly coaching him to breathe. He did not follow his counted breaths.

        _“_ _ Dad, please. Please, I miss you both so much," _  Jascha leaned forward, pulling away from Ernest’s arms. He needed to pace. “Dad, it really is me. I--I got brought back. By a doctor.”

        “Lukas!” He heard his mother wail. He cringed. He recalled her making that sound once before. He’d heard it from the ambulance.

        “Kassia, you know this isn’t possible,” he heard his father say, voice crunched oddly. It sounded like he might actually be crying, which made Jascha’s stomach flip.

        “Jascha, if this really is you, tell me about the first performance you ever did,” his mother sounded completely deranged. Her voice was frantic and strained, and the sound of it pulled his guts into weird shapes.

        “Mom, are you okay?” Jascha asked quickly, pacing back and forth in the room.

        _“_ _Of course she isn’t! _ _”_ His father yelled. He froze. He’d never heard his father yell before.

        “Dad -”

       _“_ _She’s been within inches of her life for the past month and a half for grief, and you have the nerve to call and toy with our emotions?! _ _”_ His dad really was crying. He was hearing his father cry. All those years of doubting whether or not his dad even had emotions were for nothing.

        “It was in Moscow,” Jascha forced himself to say through his own tears. “I--I was five. I played for my aunts and uncles and cousins. Grandma was there too.”

        “What -” the phone changed hands again.

        “What did you play?” His mother cried into the phone.

        “We played the Brahms. The violin sonata in D-minor.” Jascha choked out between sobs. He leaned against the wall, eyes hidden under his hand.

        “That-that’s right,” his mother’s voice shook. “Lukas, he got it-”

        “It’s a fake.” He said firmly, grabbing the phone back. _“_ _ I swear to god, if this results in the loss or harm of my wife, I will--Mother! _ _”_ Jascha flinched against the volume of his father’s voice, and the scruffy sound of the phone being exchanged again. He could hear his mother sobbing in the background, and his father yelling in an incoherent mix of Russian and Lithuanian.

         _“_ _ Jashen’ka_ _?”_ His grandmother said gently in calm, clear Lithuanian. _“_ _Your parents need some time to think.” _

_         “Please, Grandma,”  _ Jascha sobbed. _ “Do you believe me? ” _

       _“_ _ I know all the voices of my children and grandchildren by heart _ _,”_ his grandmother said kindly. _“_ _You are not the first person I’ve known to come back after being written off as dead.  Never believe a death certificate without a body. Give your parents time to talk, and then they will call you back.” _

        _“_ _Please, is my mother safe? _ _”_ Jascha begged. _“_ _Are they okay? ” _

        _“_ _Little one, leave them to me_ _,”_ his grandmother said softly. _“_ _ This number is okay to call back? ” _

        _“_ _ Yes _ _,”_ Jascha nodded, gasping for air between sobs. He slumped to the ground.

       _“_ _I will have them call in a few days_ _,”_ his grandmother said sweetly. _“_ _Please rest, my baby. You have people near you who can help? ” _

_         “Yes,” Jascha said more into his hands than into the phone. _

        _ “Okay_ _,”_ his grandmother said patiently. _“_ _It will be okay. Goodnight, love.” _

         _“_ _Goodnight,_ _”_ Jascha said hollowly. That was it. The worst...fifteen-ish minutes of his life. And he’d not only died, but been brought back,  and  had his eyes and hands replaced. Once he heard the dial tone, he closed the phone. He was vaguely aware that Ernest was saying something to him; maybe even touching him. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t really feel anything over the overwhelming grief and pain and guilt he felt for causing his parents so much suffering. He put his head in his hands and screamed as if he’d been stabbed.


	44. Death and Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry helps with a panic attack. Victor has Chinese. Jascha has a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks for sticking with us for over 2/3 of the fic! We love & appreciate all your feedback.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Panic attacks, a nightmare involving mentions of suicide

        Henry ran to the living room as soon as he heard Jascha start screaming with Victor and William right behind him. He had been so caught up in the drama with Victor and the aquarium that he forgot Jascha was supposed to call his parents and considering the shrieking echoing around the house, it didn’t go overly well.

        Jascha was curled on the floor as Ernest tied to hold his shaking shoulders. He wailed like a lost lion cub trying to find it’s mother.

        “Henry, what’s happening?” Victor whispered into his ear.

        “I think it’s his parents.” He put a hand on his shoulder and tried to block William’s view.  

Henry stared in horror as Jascha screamed in Russian, but he didn’t have the presence of mind to ask Ernest to translate. “Папочка, почему ты не хочешь меня больше?”

“Victor can you get you dad?” His eyes went back and forth between Jascha’s agony and Ernest’s rising panic. “And take William with you.”

        Victor grabbed the kid and took off for the study with a small nod. Henry slowly approached Ernest and Jascha with his arms open. He kneeled on the carpet and gently took Jascha’s hand in his own.

        “Jascha, can you breathe with me?” Henry pitched his voice low and calm like the sea.

        “Папа, почему ты не хочешь меня?” Jascha shoved his face into Ernest’s chest. “Я ошибаюсь Я не заслуживаю того, чтобы быть живым.”

        “Jascha, that’s not true,” Ernest was desperately trying to hold back tears.

        Henry tried to rub comforting circles into his knuckles as he placed a hand on Ernest’s back. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. You need oxygen. In and out.” Henry tried to give him something to focus on other than the conversation and the panic, but clearly it wasn’t working.

        "Пожалуйста, возьми меня обратно. Я буду хорошим мальчиком. Я обещаю. Пожалуйста, папа.” He held Henry’s wrist so hard that he left little half-moon indentations in his skin. “ _ Grandma, I want to come home. Tell my father to let me come home. I don't want my mom to die _ . ”

        “She’s safe, Jascha,” Henry whispered as he tried to rub the tension out of his shoulders. “Your dad and grandma will keep her safe, I promise.”

        “ Mom is so afraid. I don't want her to die. Grandma, I don't want her to die. Save her .”

        Victor ran back into the room, face red and panting. “Dad’s almost home, he said five minutes,” he glanced at Jascha and spoke so only Henry could hear him. “Is he going to be okay for that long?” Victor reached out to touch Jascha’s shoulder, but he screamed and pulled away. Victor’s own panic started radiating off him like a fog.

        “How about you go help William with some homework or something? Ernest and I can handle it for five minutes,” Henry sounded calm, to his own amazement. He certainly didn’t feel like it.

        “I was only trying to help. I didn’t mean--”

        “I know you didn’t,” Henry soothed “I think there’s just too many people for him now.” He kissed Victor’s cheek as he left with William in tow.

        “Папа, прости, мне было плохо. Пожалуйста, не сердись на меня вечно. Почему ты больше не любишь меня? Я обещаю, что я твой сын.”

        “You’re not bad,” Ernest whispered through his tears. “He loves you very much. I love you--Henry what do we do?” His voice reached a fever pitch and Jascha started to panic more, switching rapidly from Russian to Lithuanian under his breath.

        “We just have to keep him here until Alphonse comes.” Henry let his voice fall like rain. “He’ll know what to do. You need to keep breathing, too.” Ernest leaned hard against Henry’s shoulder. “In through your nose, out through you mouth.”

        Jascha had let go of Henry’s wrist and started dragging his nails against the soft skin of his forearms, not enough to leave anything more than thin red lines, but Henry didn’t want it to escalate. He gently grabbed Jascha’s wrist tried to pull him away, but he wasn’t having it. Ernest perked up for a moment and ran to grab something from across the room.

        “Can you make me a bracelet?” He asked, holding out a cluster of brightly colored embroidery floss. “It doesn’t have to be fancy. Just something.” He pressed it into Jascha’s hands.

        “Ernest?” He gasped, clutching the thread like his life depended on it. “Why doesn’t my dad want me anymore? I don’t want him to be angry,” he started sobbing into his wrists. “I should be dead.” He repeated the sentence until his voice gave out on him.

        “He loves you very much,” Ernest whispered. Henry wasn’t even sure if Jascha could hear. “He’s not angry. He’s just scared. He wants you back more than anything in the entire world.”

        Alphonse walked into the room like an angel; shining eyes and slightly terror inducing. He emitted calm, radiant energy that seemed to sparkle around the air. Henry got up and met him by the door.

        “What happened?” Alphonse asked, putting on his calm parent voice.

        “I think Jascha tried to call his parents and it didn’t go well.” Henry struggled to maintain eye contact.

        “Why wouldn’t it go well? Is he in danger? Are they like--Not again.” His calm became tighter for a moment before it released itself again.

        “No, it’s not like that. They love him,” Henry explained. “They love him so much. It’s just...they don’t think it’s real. You know, hearing from their dead son for the first time in months.”

        “Dead son?” Something in Alphonse’s face broke without actually changing expression.

        “I know we told you.” Now it was Henry’s turn to panic. “Victor brought Jascha back to life.”

        “I thought he was delusional.”

        “Jascha needs help.”

        “Yes. He does.” Alphonse straightened up and took quiet steps over the Jascha. He had curled into Ernest and was working on braiding the thread together. He was struggling a little bit, but at least his hands were put to use on anything other than his skin.

        “Jascha,” his voice flowed like a brook. “Can you tell me what happened?”

        “He tried to call--” Ernest tried to say.

        “Ernest, can Jascha tell me what happened?”

        “I called my grandma.” Jascha sniffled, “And my dad thinks I’m lying and that I’m not really me and I think my mom’s going to hurt herself and it's my fault. It’s all my fault. I’m an awful son. I should have been more careful.” He dissolved into tears again.

        “It’s not your fault,” Alphonse kept his eyes level with Jascha’s. Henry watched from over his shoulder and felt like he should run away. Icy insects of fear started crawling up his arms and legs.

        “I’m a bad son. I made my father cry.”

        “Jascha, your father wants you back more than you could possibly believe. It’s just, not a thing that happens, usually. He’s scared that it’s a dream or a trick because there is nothing he wants more in the entire world than you back at home.” Alphonse raised a comforting hand to his forearm and he didn’t flinch away. “If something happened to my children, I would give anything to have them back again.”

        “I should have let them grieve like normal people,” Jascha’s sobbing lightened, but not by much.

        “There was nothing you could have done. They would have missed you so much, for the rest of their lives and now they don’t have to miss you anymore.”

        “What if they don’t come back?” Jascha’s voice was very small. “Grandma said they were going to decide.”

        “They’ll come for you.” Henry could tell by the tone of Alphonse’s voice that he was absolutely sure. “If Caroline called me today, I’d go to her no matter what. Even if it was a trick, then I’d know for sure that she was gone. But you’re here, Jascha. They will come for you.”

        Something twinged inside Henry’s chest. His mother never came for him. Not once. His father wouldn’t have, of course. That was never any question. But his mother knew. She knew what he did to them; to them both. And she never came. When he was ten he had begged her to run away with him. And she never left, despite the bruises on her wrists and ribs.

        She loves him. Loved him. It was hopeless. He was lost to her, probably always would be. But he had a family now. He had Victor and Ernest and William and Alphonse. They were more loving in the decade he’d spent with them than the rest of his life with his parents. Why didn’t she come for him?

        A family. Jascha would always have a family with them. Always. To the bitter end. That was the Frankenstein way. No panic attacks or sleepless nights filled with screaming nightmares could possibly chase them away.

        As Alphonse continued to talk to Jascha, Henry slipped away and upstairs. He had started talking more about Caroline and Henry felt like he was intruding on a private conversation. He didn’t knock before he entered Victor’s room and was surprised to see William and Victor draped awkwardly across the bed.

        “Am I interrupting something?” he asked, light returning to his voice.

        “Nope, everything’s peachy.” Victor gave the biggest, fakest smile Henry had ever seen.

        “Sure it is. Can I see?” He asked.

        “No!” Victor and William said at the same time.

        “I need you to close your eyes,” William said. Henry complied and he heard paper being shuffled into a binder and pens clicking into place. “Goodnight Uncle Henry!”

        “It’s like three in the afternoon,” Henry protested.

        “Goodnight!” William repeated.

        When the door clicked shut, Henry threw himself on the bed next to Victor and sighed. The sheets had begun to smell like cedarwood and pine again; like home.

        “Is he going to be okay?” Victor asked, holding Henry’s hand.

        “He’s with Alphonse now.” He knew it wasn’t technically an answer, but Victor didn’t press. “Do you think his parents will come?”

        “I think they will.” Henry was surprised by Victor’s confidence. “I’d give my life to see Mom again. Anything at all. I’m sure they’ll come.” He pulled Henry into his arms and pressed a kiss to his hair.

 

* * *

 

        Dinner was a weird and quiet affair with Jascha and Ernest both notably absent. With his dad off helping with Jascha, the four adults left were left to fend for themselves food wise, an affair which ended with only moderate success. Which, of course, meant that Henry had attempted to cook some rice, Victor had hovered by his elbow offering ‘helpful’ tips, and Elizabeth had cut exactly one carrot in half before declared that she was too exhausted to continue while Justine called the local Chinese place.

        They ordered about three pounds of lo mein and white rice for Victor, their usual order, plus General Tso’s chicken for William and Ernest. Since no one knew what Jascha liked, they found him some teriyaki chicken on the assumption that no one could possibly hate that and left it in the kitchen.

        Victor poked his rice halfheartedly and eyed the staircase as William continued to press the group on their eating habits.

        “Do you guys even eat vegetables?” The kid asked, worry evident in his every word.

        “Lo mein has veggies.” Liz said through a full mouth of food.

        “I guess.” William said. “I’m just concerned that the delivery guy knew you all by name. How often do you order Chinese at your apartment?”

        “Not that often.” Henry said defensively. He glanced to Justine. “Like…two times?”

        “A month?” William asked.

        “A week.” Justine corrected as she stabbed a bit of beef. “And that’s only because the gyro place doesn’t deliver on weekends.”

        “You’re four grown adults,” William emphasized, “how do none of you know how to cook?”

        He looked to Liz, who flicked her hair back over one shoulder. “I’m too pretty for manual labor.” She said lazily.

        “Never learned.” Justine added in deadpan.

        “I try.” Henry stirred his food and shrugged. “I, uh…just don’t succeed very often.”

        William passed an expectant look to Victor, who raised an eyebrow. “Why would I need to cook when I can sustain myself on coffee and protein powder?”

        Victor swore he’d never seen a twelve-year-old look as stressed as William did, staring down into his chicken as if he were questioning his entire world view. It was understandable, he supposed. Without Ernest to bridge the gap, William was officially the most responsible one in the room.

        A door upstairs closed and everyone looked up to the ceiling in unison. Victor held stiff in his seat, waiting for another scream to echo around the house, but nothing came. Just silence and the usual creaks of the aged space.

        “Okay,” Justine broke the group from their collective trance, “are we going to talk about what happened today or…?”

        “Well, we know Jascha called his family.” Henry jumped in. “They, uh, didn’t take his being alive as well as he hoped.” An abbreviation of guilt flickered across his face. “I don’t know too much beyond that and, you know, I don’t know how much he actually wants to share…”

        “What’s up with that anyway?” Liz asked. “Why doesn’t his family know he’s alive? Are they, like, shit or something?” A rare flicker of maternal instinct swelled in her voice. “Do we need to burn another house down?”

        “ Another  house?” William asked.

        “Your sister’s a professional arsonist.” Victor threw in cheerfully, attempting to mask the small panic in his voice. “Actually,” he raised his voice a notch and drew a thin smirk across his face, “everyone at this table besides me is, technically.”

        Both Liz and Henry aimed various levels of poisonous glares at him while Justine casually helped herself to more lo mein. William blinked at him in surprise. “Uncle Henry is?” He looked to Henry, who coughed and purposefully avoided his eye.

        “Wait.” Liz saved Henry with an insulted huff, standing up from her seat. “Why are you surprised about Henry but not me?”

        William scrutinized her doubtfully. “You got me a switchblade for my eighth birthday.”

        “…Fair.” She sat back down. “But nobody answered my question. Why do Jascha’s parents think he’s dead?”

        Victor squirmed in his seat and sent a quick glance to Henry who peered back with equal cluelessness and panic. So much for a quick save. Victor tried to weigh how much he could convince Liz to believe vs how much she would actually want to know. Would a sharp lie be effective here? Probably not. He’d never been successful in lying to Elizabeth before, after all. And Justine? Might as well attach a lie detector to his pulse point right now.

        How much did Jascha even want them to know?

        “William,” Henry interrupted his latest ethical dilemma, “do you want to go wash the dishes?”

        William frowned. “Why aren’t I allowed to hear what happened to Jascha? He’s Ernest’s boyfriend so he’s practically family. I should get to know.”

        “You will.” Justine said comfortingly. “But later, okay?”

        William bristled for a moment before sighing. “Yeah, okay.” He picked up the nearest plate mournfully and attempted to reach for Victor’s only to have Justine cut him off.

        “Victor doesn’t get to surrender his plate until he’s eaten actual food.” She said.

        “Rice is actual food.” Victor protested.

        “Rice is baby food. Eat some lo mein.” She scooped more food onto his plate. As William scooped up Henry’s dishes and exited the room, though, Justine’s gaze turned serious. “So how’d you do it?” She asked.

        “Do what?” Liz frowned as Victor sank in his seat and Henry became extremely interested in counting the exact number of lace swirls in the white table cloth. Elizabeth’s gaze traveled between the two for a beat before landing squarely on Victor. “What did you do.” She said flatly.

        “Why do you always assume it’s me?” Victor said.

        Liz raised an eyebrow.

        “…Alright, dumb question.” Victor turned over his lo mein and took a deep breath. “So you, uh, remember when I was nuts?”

        “Like last week nuts or Ingolstadt nuts?” Liz narrowed her eyes. “Or regular nuts?”

        “Last three months ago nuts.” Victor said ruefully as he tapped Henry’s leg beneath the table. He relaxed minutely as the other received his message and offered him a hand to hold. He was soft and warm and safe. “Anyway, remember how I was constantly in the lab and refused to tell you what I was working on no matter how much you asked?”

        “Yeah.” Liz said. “Dumbass.”

        “Yeah, yeah.” Victor waved her off. “And you remember how around that time, body parts started going missing from the UChicago morgue?”

        Elizabeth’s expression became a touch more uncertain. “Yeah?”

        “And you remember how you flipped out that one night I came home covered in blood?”

        “Okay.” Liz interrupted, looking vaguely sick. “I don’t know what this has to do with Jascha but if you’re implying that  you  were the ones stealing body parts, Victor…well, I mean, first of all, good job. Didn’t think you had it in you. Secondly, what the actual  fuck -“

        “He’s implying that he brought Jascha back from the dead.” Justine interjected confidently. “Apparently using various body parts from the morgue.”

        Victor winced and aimed an apologetic smile at the pair. “Whoops?”

        Henry dropped his head into his hand as Liz stared at Victor, completely aghast. Victor writhed under her gaze. “So should we go check on Jascha now or-”

        “Have you completely lost it?!” Liz exploded, slamming her palms down on the table. “You don’t--people don’t come back from the dead, Victor! Justine, what are you--Victor, what are you even on?! Did you finally get hooked on hard drugs or something?! Are you snorting crack!”

        “He’s telling the truth.” Henry said, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but this room. “I saw it. Or, at least, the aftermath. He brought Jascha back.”

        “How?” Liz grit out, still not breaking eye contact with Victor. Her eyes were electric with rage and Victor suddenly felt as if he was fuzzing out like an old TV screen.

        “Electricity. Suspended the body in a stable system mimicking-”

        “No, no.” Elizabeth growled. “ How.  As in why would you feel justified doing something like that? Messing with life and death?”

        Victor’s mouth ran dry. With difficulty, he snapped his eyes away from Elizabeth. Beside him, Henry had gone completely rigid, grasp tightening to iron.

        “Liz.” Justine said slowly. “Don’t.”

        “No!” Liz whipped around to face Justine. “You can’t just bring people back to life! I mean, what about our mom or my dead dad, huh?!” Victor squeezed his eyes shut. “Are they going to come waltzing through the door too?! Are they going to-”

        “Kid fucked up.” Justine pushed in smoothly as she set a gentle hand on top of Liz’s. “But now Jascha gets a second chance at life, Ernest gets a wonderful boyfriend, and we get to have them both in our lives. That’s all there is to it.” She shot Liz a look he could only interpret as  let’s talk later.  Elizabeth, however, ignored it, standing up from the table and aiming one last withering glower at Victor before sweeping from the room.

        Justine watched her go sympathetically. She sighed before standing. “I’m going to go see if I can talk to her.” She addressed mainly Henry.

        Henry nodded. “Is she…”

        “She’ll be fine.” Justine smiled tightly. “It’s Lizzie. She just needs to get some of it out of her system and she’ll come back around in no time.” Justine bent slightly to interrupt Victor’s downcast line of sight. “Don’t worry. You’re her little brother.” She said it as if that explained everything.

         Victor took a breath. “Okay.”

        Justine exited the room, leaving only Henry, him, and the untouched lo mein on his plate. Somewhere above them, a door slammed. Victor cleared his throat painfully. “Admittedly…that went better than I thought it would.”

        “Yeah.” Henry agreed softly. He relinquished his tight grasp on Victor’s hand and adopted a more gentle hold on his upper arm. “You okay?”

        “Sure.” Victor said absently. At least everyone in the family knew the big secret now. No one left to surprise or disappoint. He retrieved his fork, still keeping one ear turned to the ceiling, waiting for another scream or maybe the slamming of doors. “So…you were talking about  To a Stranger ?”

        “Yeah.” Henry said hesitantly. “Should we...do you think I should check on Jascha?”

        “Not right now.” Victor said. “He’s with Ernest. He’ll take care of him.” He took a bite of lo mein and grimaced at the taste. “We’ll see what we can do to help tomorrow.”

 

* * *

  

        Jascha, historically, had about three coping mechanisms for extreme stress. One, faint. He hadn’t really done that one since high school, but he used to faint under any kind of panic-inducing situation. ‘Chronically low blood pressure’ was what the doctor said, mixed with an unbelievably low stress threshold. Two, talk to his mom. He couldn’t do that one, for once. Thinking about it as an option only made things worse. Three, find a dark, solitary room (preferably with white noise) and hide in it until he either fell asleep or his father found him and talked to him. Dad wasn’t coming, but sleep might.

        “Jascha?” Ernest’s voice barely rose above the level of the shower. Jascha could hear it, but he was holding still. He needed to be completely still, because any movement would break the seal on his emotions and he’d need to cry again. “You’ve been in the shower for...three hours. Can I come in?”

        Jascha wanted to say yes, or maybe no. he couldn’t decide. “Maybe.” he finally said, shocked at the sound of his own voice.

        He heard the door open, and the room was filled with soft light from Ernest’s bedroom. He assumed Alphonse must have left by now. He and Ernest were talking, since Ernest was understandably also upset. He didn’t move as Ernest pulled back the shower curtain a little. He did flinch when Ernest put a hand on his shoulder. “Babe...Why are you wearing clothes?”

        No response. He had to be very still and very quiet.

        “Jascha, the water is freezing. And you’re, like, shivering,” Ernest’s voice was calm and collected, though he was still a little hoarse from crying. “Let me help?”

        Move, or don’t move. Jascha considered the options. On the one hand, if he moved he could probably go to bed and explore the new, fourth coping mechanism: Ernest. But that one hadn’t really been tested under this level of stress, so it was probably only sixty-percent going to work. However, there was the addition situation of rejecting Ernest’s offer causing him more guilt, which would in turn make him more stressed, and would mean he’d have to actually die.

        “Okay,” he finally said. Ernest shut off the water. Jascha gasped; the constant sound and pressure of the stream had been holding him together for the past few hours, and now it was gone. It felt like being thrown into ice water, which was funny since that had more or less been the shower’s temperature.

        He was vaguely aware of being detangled. Ernest coaxed him out of his curled-up state with gentle touches and kisses. He had to carefully pry his newly-healed fingers off of his legs, but once they were free Jascha finally came back to himself. He turned to Ernest and wrapped his arms around him stiffly, hungry for his warmth.

        “It’s okay,” Ernest whispered, holding him tightly despite his absolutely soaked t-shirt and hair. “We’ll get you dried off and in bed, and everything will be okay.”

        “I’m sorry,” Jascha mumbled against his chest. He’d broken his own rule about not making Ernest cry. He probably also stressed out Henry and William. He should apologize and move out. Harvey would probably let him stay with him, or even better, at home. Wait. That wasn’t better. He was thinking about his family again.

        “You don’t need to be,” Ernest kissed his cheek. “This was a lot. It makes sense that you’re upset.” He let Ernest peel his t-shirt over his head. He left it in the bathtub. Jascha removed his boxers himself, and accepted the towel that was offered. It did feel a little better to be dry and warm. After brushing his teeth, he followed Ernest back into the bedroom and pulled on the night clothes he brought from home. He relaxed a little bit at the familiar smell of tea that still clung to his Tanglewood t-shirt. Ernest finished up his own stuff in the bathroom and joined him on the bed. Jascha was already under the covers and curled on his side.

        Ernest wrapped his arms around him, finding his hand and holding it gently. He rubbed the back of his hand gently with his thumb, and Jascha was thankful for the touch. It was a good substitute for his usual tendency to scratch lightly at his skin. Ernest kissed the back of his neck, and Jascha finally took a deep breath.

        “You know that I love you,” Ernest barely moved his lips away from his skin as he spoke. “I’m so happy that you’re here,” Jascha closed his eyes against the fresh tears as Ernest pressed his lips to his skin again. “I love you, like, so, so much.”

        Jascha turned over, wiping his eyes quickly with his hand. He wrapped his arms around Ernest and buried his face between his neck and shoulder. He wished he could use words, but they always came out wrong and weird or in the wrong language. Judging by the fact that Ernest was holding him tightly and rubbing his shoulders gently, the message got across. Even if he felt like he shouldn’t be alive, Ernest was too good to give it up.

 

        His dreams were...bad. He knew very little about his parents’ past, but he did know enough for his subconscious to send him on an absolute downward spiral. The dream hurt because it seemed so normal. There wasn’t anything crazy in it to reassure him that it wasn’t reality. He was seated at the kitchen table in Moscow, across from his grandmother. She was dressed in black.

        “What happened?” Jascha asked. He couldn’t ever actually dream successfully in Lithuanian, so he was speaking English.

        “Jashen’ka, didn’t you hear?” His grandmother said seriously. “The funeral is today.”

        “But I’m alive,” Jascha said.

        “I know,” his grandmother said gently, reaching for his hand. Oh, alright. His wrists weren’t fixed. The bones and tendons were still snapped and exposed, even though he couldn’t feel the pain. “It’s for your mother, little one.”

        “What?” Jascha said quietly. “That’s impossible. She’s alive.”

        “No,” his grandmother said sadly. “It was too much. Lukas and I agreed that she was in so much pain that it was better for her to slip away.”

        “What?!” Jascha shouted.

        “Quiet, my love, quiet. Your father might hear.”

        “Why?” Jascha cried. “Why did she die?”

        “Losing a child is hard on a parent,” his grandmother said softly. “And you are not the first one she’s lost. You know of the miscarriages? One was late enough that she could see the baby. Jashen’ka, she was so frightened about losing you. All your life.”

        “But I’m here!” Jascha keened into his hands, ignoring the bones and blood.

        “You are, but only I can see you,” his grandmother patted his arm. “You have to be old to see ghosts.” Jascha looked up at her through his fingers.

        “But I’m alive. I’m me,” Jascha said quietly.

        “That’s what every ghost thinks,” his grandmother said with a gentle, sympathetic smile. “Come, you’ll be late for the funeral.”

        “No,” Jascha said weakly. “No, absolutely not. I can’t. Please, don’t make me-”

        The dream shifted, and he was in the huge church he was always dragged to during Christmas. His whole family was there; somehow also his American aunts and cousin Harvey. All were dressed in black. His father was, to his horror, crying, and being comforted by his aunt and uncle. His grandmother had an unyielding grip on his hand, and pulled him to the casket, which was down below the altar.

        “Please,” Jascha whimpered. “Please, don’t make me go.”

        “You need to see,” his grandmother said firmly. “It will help with the grief. That was your mother’s problem, you see? She never got to see your body afterwards.”

        They were at the altar, the open casket right in front of them. Jascha wasn’t going to look, but you never really have control over your dreams. He had to look, and there she was. His mother, who looked alarmingly like she was a strange, greyed doll of herself, laying in the satin-lined coffin. Jascha screamed.

        “Jascha?” Ernest’s voice drew him back.

        “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Jascha repeated, sobbing as he sat up. “I didn’t mean to hurt her,”

        “Shh,” Ernest wrapped his arms around his shaking shoulders tightly. “It was a dream. Just a bad dream. Everything is okay,” Jascha leaned against his chest, gasping for air. He gripped Ernest as if his life depended on it.

        “A dream,” he repeated. “Just a dream,” Jascha repeated the phrase to himself until his crying steadied. Between that and Ernest stroking his hair, he came down after a few minutes.

        “Do you wanna talk about it?” Ernest asked once his breathing was closer to normal.

        “My mom was dead,” Jascha said into his chest. “She killed herself and it was because of me. My grandmother made me look.”

        “That’s awful,” Ernest said sympathetically, kissing him on his temple. “But we know it isn’t real. Your grandmother said that she’d keep your mom safe, and your dad too.”

        “Mhm,” Jascha nodded. Ernest was right. His grandmother was on his side. For once he was lucky his father’s family all lived during the bad parts of the Soviet Union; it gave them all a skepticism of paperwork and unsubstantiated claims about people’s whereabouts. Sure, it was stressful when his grandmother came to visit and he had to try to translate her interactions with pretty much anyone who asked to see her paperwork or ID (she always asked them who they were, and told them she’d rather die than get sent to the Gulag, and that she didn’t regret her husband’s actions during the invasion in the Baltics). But at least it made her a skeptic about death.

        “Do you think you can go back to sleep?” Ernest asked, freeing him from another memory of his grandmother when his father had gotten pulled over for a busted headlight.

        “No,” Jascha said quietly.

        “It’s like...six in the morning. Want to go downstairs?” Ernest kissed his hair again.

        “No,” Jascha couldn’t handle facing Henry or William again. Or Alphonse. They must be worried that he was like Victor. Jascha couldn’t do that to them again.

        “That’s okay,” Ernest said gently. “Do you promise to eat food if I bring it up for you?”

        Jascha felt kind of sick. “Probably not.”

        “What about protein shakes? Can you drink?”

        Jascha knew that if he refused all food or drink Ernest would worry, so he’d have to say yes. “Okay,” Jascha sighed. At least if it was a liquid he didn’t have to find the energy to chew.

        “Cool,” Ernest kissed him again. “I’m gonna go make you the protein shake, and then I think I’m gonna go for a run. Unless you want me to stay?”

        “I always want you,” Jascha said weakly, pulling away and kissing Ernest’s cheek. “You should go run, though.”

        “You’ll be safe?” Worry passed over Ernest’s features. He was used to Victor, after all. The guy who thought it was fun to scream death threats at people and see how many shards of glass he could fit in his skin before his dad came home.

        “I will,” Jascha forced his voice to be unwavering. He knew for a fact that he’d be safe, it was more just that he wasn’t good at being convincing when he was stressed.

        “You promise?” Ernest pressed.

        “I promise,” Jascha kissed his hand. This seemed to convince Ernest enough, since he smiled faintly and kissed his forehead.

        “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be right back with the shake.”

        Jascha curled back into a ball and waited under the covers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of the Russian in Jascha's panic attack:  
> Папочка, почему ты не хочешь меня больше: Daddy, why don't you want me anymore  
> Папа, почему ты не хочешь меня?: Dad, why don't you want me  
> Я ошибаюсь Я не заслуживаю того, чтобы быть живым.: I'm a mistake. I don't deserve to be alive  
> Пожалуйста, возьми меня обратно. Я буду хорошим мальчиком. Я обещаю. Пожалуйста, папа: Please take me back. I'll be a good kid. I promise. Please dad


	45. Happier Futures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry decorates the tree. Victor joins an artist’s colony. Jascha talks to his mom.

        Days passed and they stretched on with no sight of Jascha and barely any of Ernest. Christmas was ticking ever nearer and it became time to set up the Frankenstein family Christmas tree. Henry walked down the stairs with a box full of tinsel and ornaments.

        “Uncle Henry, Uncle Henry, I want to put the first decoration on the tree,” William grabbed his sleeve and bounced like a nerdy kid in the Met.

        “Relax,” Henry chided playfully, “Your dad and Ernest haven’t even gotten the tree up yet.” He stole a glance at Ernest and Alphonse struggling with an oversized tree. In all honestly, Ernest was doing most of the work. Still nothing from Jascha. Henry was beginning to get very, very worried, but he knew that would only make Jascha feel worse.

        “They need to do it faster,” William whined.

        “Don’t you have an older brother you need to antagonize?” Henry smirked as he leapt towards Victor to harass him like a magpie. Henry kinda zoned out and watched the two bicker without really hearing anything. He was pretty sure he saw Victor lick William’s nose. He smiled and shook his head. What? Was he actually three? Still, it was nice to see them getting along after so many years of not.

        Henry set the box on the couch next to Elizabeth, who was scrolling through her IPod. Justine was draped across her lap with her legs slung over the back of the couch. “Can’t you sit normally?”

        “Nope,” they answered in unison.

        “No?” he asked, shoving Elizabeth’s legs to the side.

        “Nope, we’re gay,” Elizabeth looked up from her screen. “Gay people can’t sit straight.”

        “Victor can sit,” Henry gestured over his shoulder without looking and both Justine and Elizabeth started giggling. Victor was attempting to sit cross legged but William had dragged him on his back trying to take a snowglobe from his hands.

        “Uncle Henry said it was okay,” William had braced himself against the arm of a chair.

        “You sent this plague upon me?” Victor’s voice rose several options. “Et tu, Henr-ay.”

        “My dear. My darling. You brought this upon yourself.” Henry forced himself off the couch and walked over to stare at Victor struggling. “You know you can just let go of it, right.”

        “Then he wins,” Victor moaned like it was the worst thing to happen in the world.

        “I deserve to win,” William finally pried the globe from his brother’s grasp and help it triumphantly over his head.

        “Can any of you do anything helpful ever?” Ernest was laying halfway under the tree, attempting to screw it into the stand. It was still a little crooked, but it was passable, for now. He motioned for his dad to hand him the tree food. It was weird to see Alphonse in anything less than slacks and a nice polo, but now he was wearing jeans and t-shirt. It was weird.

        “I brought down the decorations all the way from the attic,” there was something hidden in Ernest’s voice so Henry tried to over dramatize his anguish. “I think I might just keel over.” Henry flopped over at his knees. “Do you need any help?”

        “Not anymore,” Ernest crawled away and tried to brush the pine needles out of his hair, to no avail. “I’m gonna go see if Jascha wants to come down. You guys can start without me.”

        “Absolutely not,” Elizabeth paced over to him. “You’ve never missed the first ornament since you were like, two years old.”

        “Get Jascha to come down, he’s part of the family. He should celebrate with us.” Alphonse got up and started flipping through a collection of CDs.

        “Please, Ernest.” William grabbed on to his elbow. “I want to dance with Uncle Jascha.”

        “Uncle Jascha?” Many voices asked at the same time and Henry couldn’t quite tell them apart.

        “Um, yeah.” William shrugged. “I think it’s kinda obvious at this point.”

        “Okay, bud,” Ernest sighed and ruffled his hair. “No promises, but I’ll try.”

        There was a brief moment of silence when Ernest left and the entire family listened as the stairs creaked. “Okay!” Elizabeth joined Alphonse near the CDs. “What’s it going to be this year.”

        “Nutcracker!” Henry called as he peered over their shoulders.

        “Henry, we can’t do The Nutcracker every year.” Justine sighed and kicked her feet up onto the coffee table.

        “I know, because you never let me play it,” Henry pouted and sat down next to her.

        “We did when you were fourteen, is that not enough?” Elizabeth sat next to him and nudged his shoulder. Something shot through Henry’s chest and he leaned against her.

        “I don’t know, I think Jascha would like it.” His voice was smaller than he wanted it to be and Victor practically sat on his lap.

        “He’s right!” William threw himself over Henry’s shoulders. “Jascha would love it! He gets so excited when we talk about music. He tried to teach me Chopin. I think I’m really getting the hang of it.”

        “You can play exactly three notes,” Victor teased as he leaned harder against Henry.

        “I think The Nutcracker is a great idea this year,” Alphonse said, turning the CD in his hand. “Berlin Phil or Vienna Staatsoper?”

        “Isn’t the Staatsoper just the Vienna Phil?” Henry asked.

        “Yes, but they’re so pretentious they don’t want to admit it,” Alphonse smirked and popped the Berlin Phil into the radio. The family descended into silence again and Heny tried to make sense of the creaking floorboards. It was three days before Christmas. They really couldn’t wait any longer and Ernest needed to be here. Jascha needed to be here too. The sound of the floor shifted locations and made its way towards the stairs. Success.

        “Jascha, it’s wonderful to see you! I’ve missed you so much! Can you keep teaching me Chopin? I taught myself to read music while you were sleeping.” William bounded up to him and surrounded him with electric energy.

        “William, why don’t you give Jascha a bit of a break. It’s been a difficult week for him,” Alphonse eyed Ernest. “Have you explained to him what’s going on?”

        “I...uh… kinda forgot that part,” Ernest looked away and blushed.

        “So, the long and short of it is, we’re gonna decorate the tree and dance to The Nutcracker,” Elizabeth explained. “We used to do it with Mom when we were little.”

        Henry remembered the first time he was invited over to the house for this little ceremony. He was eleven years old and things were bad, but Caroline insisted he learn how to waltz. He remembers standing on her shoes as he learned the steps. She had laughed when he tried to bow to Victor to take him dancing.

        Jascha looked a little dead, but he nodded and seemed grateful. The circles under his eyes were worse than Henry’s ever were; even when he barely slept. His hair was a mess and it seemed like he had lost a statistically significant amount of weight. Maybe he could leave some chocolate outside their door. Henry always liked chocolate when he was upset. Chocolate or gummy bears. Or chocolate gummy bears.

        “I think Henry and Jascha should do the first ornament,” William held out a golden orb with everyone’s name written on it. “But they need to sign it first.”

        “I...really?” Henry asked. He knew it was silly, but this was something he used to daydream about.

        “Of course, you’re part of our family. You both are. No matter what.” Alphonse tried to make eye contact with Jascha.

        Henry signed his name next to Victor’s and passed the ball and pen to Jascha. He looked at Ernest, who nodded, and he too signed. Together, they held the red ribbon and placed it on a branch for everyone to see. The scene burst into excitement and chaos. Elizabeth threw on some music and everyone else started decorating the tree.

        It was fun. Anyone who only knew Alphonse from work might have assumed that his Christmass tree was perfectly organized and elegant, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. Strewn across the branches were a mishmash of novelty ornaments from traveling and events and the kids’ homemade craft projects. Caroline and Alphonse had kept every single one of them. To Henry, the smell of Christmas was that of popsicle sticks and scarily preserved gingerbread that might actually be a dog treat.

        Henry noticed that Jascha shoved himself in a corner. This probably wasn’t actually the best way to reintroduce him back to society. The Frankensteins could get loud and excited. But he talked to Ernest and Ernest smiled, so it probably wouldn't be that bad. At least he was well enough to come down. That was enough.

        Then it was time for dancing and Henry’s one deep dark secret was that he loved to dance. He was pretty wretched, so much so that even Victor and Alphonse admitted it, but what could he say? It was fun.

        “May I have this dance, my dear?” Victor almost snuck up behind him. Almost.

        “Of course,” Henry was surprised to feel that he was blushing. Why? This was so normal. They had done this for over a decade and the thrum that beat through his blood when he danced with Victor was unmatchable. There was something different about it this time. Something warm like honey and sunshine. Victor’s hand was warm against his side and they waltzed in slow, clumsy circles somewhat to the beat of Tchaikovsky.

        “You have really cute freckles,” Victor whispered.

        “I..do? Thanks?”

        “I can just see them really close here,” Victor adjusted his grip on Henry’s hand and maneuvered them so they narrowly avoided a bookshelf. “They’re pretty. You’re pretty.”

        “You’re pretty, too,” Henry giggled. “You’re supposed to look over my shoulder, you know? That’s bad form.”

        “Since when did you ever care about form?”

        “Since I decided I wanted to kiss you,” Henry smiled as Victor snapped his head into the right place. He pressed chaste kisses to the top of his head.

        “No fair, I want real kisses,” Victor looked into Henry’s eyes. He saw himself staring back in them.

        So Henry kissed him and his lips were soft and sang with the faint taste of apples and honey.

 

* * *

 

        “William,” Victor hissed as he struggled to brush the spilled glitter off his sleeve, “I agreed to _help_ you with your project, not join a goddamn artist’s colony with you.”

        “Tough.” William said firmly. “You said you’d help so you’re helping.” He sat back from his latest drawing and scrutinized it closely. “Now. Do you think this looks dramatic enough or should I add more glitter?”

        “I don’t know.” Victor moaned. He collapsed back across William’s floor. “I don’t want to look again.”

        “I didn’t even draw him in a toga.” William said from somewhere above him. He was crossing back and forth across the room now, grabbing fistfuls of what Victor could only assume to be more glitter and water paints.

        “Yeah, but you did draw him with his fucking tits out which is just as bad.” Victor sent a glare towards the _Ernest Achilles_ spread out by his head.

        “I drew him like Achilles is usually depicted.” William said. “I can’t help it that the Greeks didn’t like shirts.”

        Victor groaned again and threw a hand over his forehead. “Why couldn’t you just be into, I don’t know, Victorian medicine like a normal person?”

        “You mean like you?” William said amusedly.

        “Yes.” Victor snapped. “Like me. Trying to buy leeches off the internet at the age of twelve is perfectly normal. Trying to draw your entire family as gay Greeks? Little weird.”

        William’s face appeared over him, little face twisted seriously. “Did you get them?”

        “Get what?” Victor asked.

        “The leeches.”

        “No. Dad made me return them.”

        “Darn.” William mumbled. “If you got a breeding pair, we could have had so many leeches by now.”

        “I know!” Victor sat up and grabbed William’s arms. “William, promise me now that you won’t grow up to be as boring as our father. Go be a mad scientist or something. Raise your children alongside your baby leeches. Do what I cannot. Avenge me, William. You’re my only hope.”

        William scoffed at him and brushed his hands off. “Do it yourself. I’m going to move to Athens to be an artist with Isabella.”

        “God,” Victor plopped back down, “I’m surrounded by humanities kids. This is my worst nightmare. Henry has brought a plague upon this house and Jascha has only made it worse with his stupid violin talk.”

        “Yup.” William said absently. “Hey, if Jascha and Ernest get married, who do you think is going to play at the wedding? I feel like Jascha would want to do it but if he’s walking down the aisle…”

        “Easy. He walks down the aisle while playing.” Victor said. He paused and waited for a moment as if saying Jascha’s name might summon a sound from his and Ernest’s room. Nothing. He frowned. “Hey, is Jascha still on that weirdo sleeping schedule?”

        “Yeah,” a bit of worry squirmed its way into William’s voice, “I think he’s still waiting on his parents to call.”

        That wasn’t good. It was three days to Christmas. What on earth were Jascha’s parents holding out for? Victor shifted uneasily. Hell was going to break loose if nobody called by Christmas. Or, worse, if they _did_ call by Christmas and told Jascha they didn’t believe him. If the last few days were any indication, Jascha might just snap. And not snap like Victor snapped, shooting poison at everyone in sight without actually bringing much harm on himself, snap as in breakdown completely.

        Victor just couldn’t understand it. Even from the brief interaction he’d had with Jascha’s parents, he could tell they were completely devoted to their son and now he was back, (almost) good as new! Who wouldn’t be thrilled?

        Victor grunted as something hard connected with his stomach. He aimed a glare at William, who was sitting on his chest, staring at him expectantly through bottle-thick glasses. “What?”

        “Get up.” William commanded. “I need you to do some shading.”

        “Since when am I your assistant?” Victor protested, shoving William off of him.

        “Since you started hiding in my room. And you’re not my assistant, you’re my apprentice.” William danced his way across the room, delicately avoiding the expanse of artwork spread across his floor. He squatted in front of the picture of Justine. “Here.” He plucked it up by one corner. “This one needs some background shading around the trees.”

        “I’m not hiding in your room.” Victor said as he accepted the golden figure of _Justine Diomedes_ and set to work giving the ground proper shadows. “Jascha’s stressed, I make Jascha more stressed, so I’m just avoiding the areas he might be.”

        “By hiding.” William said.

        “By being courteous.” Victor corrected. “‘Sides, you should consider yourself lucky. I blew off watching a movie with Henry to hang out with your little twerp ass.”

        “I’m so grateful.” William said in deadpan.

        “You should be!”

        “Hey. Can I come in?” Both William and Victor were sent scrambling as the door opened a crack. Luckily, by this point, they had the routine down pat and it only took five seconds to stow all the drawings/paintings beneath William’s bed, though Victor did get another hefty load of glitter on his nice black shirt in the process.

        William ran to the door and drew it open. “Ernest!” He said in delight. “How’s Jascha?”

        Ernest scratched the back of his neck, purposefully avoiding William’s inquiring eye. “He’s, uh...still having a rough time…”

        “So they still haven’t called?” Victor asked incredulously. “What are they waiting for, him to die again?”

        Ernest’s face paled a shade or nine and Victor grimaced. “I mean…” He adjusted his tone to something lighter. “I guess they might need time to process…And it’s close to Christmas...they could be busy...”

        “So you don’t get it either,” Ernest sighed.

        “Not in the least.”

        Ernest nodded and, at William’s tugging insistence, crossed the room to sit on his bed. William immediately planted himself next to Ernest and leaned against him while Victor hovered. Ernest ran a hand down his face. “I just don’t understand.” He finally said after a few minutes of silence in which William had moved from being pressed against Ernest’s side to being practically collapsed in his lap. “He sounds the same, he knew everything they asked. Why didn’t they believe him? His cousin Harvey did.”

        Victor exchanged a glance with William, who looked up to Ernest. Oh. Great. Victor had forgotten he was technically the adult in the room. He cleared his throat and tried to master his expression into something comforting. “Well...they did, you know, see his...uh.” He stopped himself short and looked to William. “You know, right?”

        “I was eavesdropping last night.” He confirmed, not looking guilty in the slightest.

        “Excellent.” Victor nodded. “They actually saw him die. Like, that’s kinda a hard thing to get past.”

        “Yeah,” frustration colored Ernest’s words, “but they won’t even check for sure? It’s their son. Like, Dad was right, if there was even a sliver of a chance Mom was still alive...”

        “Yeah,” Victor sighed. “I know. But,” he shrugged helplessly, “it’s in their hands now. Not much to be done. Unless you want me to call and try to explain the science to them.”

        Ernest considered it for a beat. “Nah, that would probably make things worse. Apparently, Jascha’s mom is very upset.” He let the last word hang just a bit too heavy and Victor frowned.

        “Upset, like, upset or _upset_?” He asked, throwing half glance to William, who looked confused.

        “ _Upset._ ” Ernest confirmed.

        “Well shit.” Jascha’s mom had been very distraught at losing her son’s body. More so than he anticipated. “Shit.”

        “Yup.” Ernest nodded loosely. “And if something happens to her…”

        They may as well kiss Jascha goodbye, Victor filled in. Suddenly consumed by a wave of sympathy or maybe dread, Victor moved to the bed and sat beside Ernest. He pressed his shoulder into the other’s and willed himself not to make it awkward this time. To his relief, Ernest didn’t stiffen, allowing his head to fall against Victor’s shoulder without protest. Ernest’s sweater was very warm and soft.

        “He’ll be fine.” Victor said with breezy confidence. “He’s a resilient guy and you guys have already been through a ton. I’m sure his parents will call back in just a few days, telling him exactly when they’re coming to visit.”

        “Yeah,” William piped up, “Jascha’s the greatest. Even if they’re having a hard time believing it, his parents love him. They’ll call back.”

        “Yeah…” Ernest said softly. He shook his head. “They’ll call back.” He said with renewed strength. “They’ve got to, right?”

        “Right.” William and Victor confirmed in unison.

        “Ernest are you-” Victor glanced to the door, where his dad stood, looking over the scene with an unreadable expression. He blinked a few times. “Are you boys...okay?” He asked slowly.

        “We’re fine.” Ernest said as Victor stared at his dad, trying to pick out every single emotion he could find. It was mainly disbelief, maybe some vague fear. Lots of surprise. Hope. “I just came to invite William and Victor downstairs.” He ruffled William’s hair, laughing as the kid pulled away. “You’ve been holed up here all day, depriving me of my Christmas cuddles!”

        “I’ve been busy.” William giggled as he adjusted his glasses. With his hair mused, the kid looked like a near double to Ernest. It was kind of adorable. “Victor’s been helping me with stuff.”

        “Stuff?” Ernest cocked his head and looked to Victor. “What kind of stuff?”

        “Secret stuff.” Victor answered. “Super secret.”

        “And involving glitter apparently.” Victor felt a hand tug on his sleeve and batted it away, sticking out his tongue at his father.

        “I look amazing!” He declared. “This is high fashion!”

        “Oh I’m sure.” Ernest teased. He stood and straightened his slightly rumpled sweater. “I’m going to head back downstairs for a moment. And you’ve all got to come with me because you,” he lightly knocked William’s shoulder, “are not doing nearly enough holiday celebrating and you,” Victor blinked in surprise as Ernest addressed him directly, “need to go entertain your boyfriend before he decides to turn on yet another Hallmark Holiday Special.”

        Victor smiled. “All over it. But no sports.”

        “No promises.” Ernest shot back.

        As they left the room, Victor made sure to kick the barely visible _Elizabeth Paris_ deeper under the bed.

 

* * *

 

        Jascha completely collapsed the minute he was back in Ernest’s bed. Ernest had to wake him up for the tree thing; he was on Moscow time. 7PM Chicago time was...2AM in Moscow. Yeah. And Jascha was on his parents’ sleep schedule, which meant he’d been asleep for about three hours by the time Ernest forced him to come downstairs. All he’d had to say was that William was asking for him, and Jascha couldn’t refuse. God knows Ernest tried appealing to his feelings for everyone else. But they’d seen him lose it, which meant guilt, which meant hopefully never seeing them again. William was the only one for whom he had to act normal. Once Victor and Henry started dancing, attention was drawn away from him and he disappeared back to bed. Ernest let him. He felt bad, making Ernest put up with the weird sleep patterns, but it was the only way he could be certain he was awake when his parents were. Besides, it was comforting to be able to cuddle with Ernest while he slept. He didn’t really want to move, even when he was awake, and if Ernest’s was asleep he didn’t have to.

        They were both asleep when the phone rang. Jascha knew that if the ringer was on, he’d fall into a complete panic attack when it went off. So it was on vibrate, on the lowest intensity. His eyes snapped open when he heard the quiet buzzing. 2AM Chicago time. That meant it was late morning for his parents; a reasonable time to call. He grabbed the phone and ran to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

        “Hello?” He asked, trying his best not to panic.

        “Jascha? Why are you awake? It’s so late there,”

        “Mom,” Jascha whispered. “You’re okay,” he felt his voice crack a little.

        “I am,” his mother sounded almost normal. “I’m sorry we took so long to call you back. Your uncle got involved, and it’s your grandmother’s house, so then everyone got involved, and everyone had opinions on what we should do, so it just took longer.”

        “And…” Jascha choked on the words, fear pounding against the walls of his skull. “What are you going to do? Is Dad there?”

        “He’s right here,” she said gently. “I’m holding his hand. I told him to wait to talk to you, since he’s going to talk in Russian and it stresses you out to process the two at once.”

        “Okay,” Jascha’s voice quivered. “Are you…” His voice trailed off. He was too scared to finish the question.

        “We’re going to come,” his mother said sweetly. “I--I talked to Aunt Lena. And she, uh, told me that Harvey told her that you came to the house with a very sweet friend that you’ve been staying with,” his mother laughed lightly. “She was actually about to call us. To let us know. Harvey had asked her what she thought we’d do, since he knew you were going to call.”

        Relief rolled over Jascha like a summer breeze, and he took a shaky breath. “You’re coming?” He asked, his voice fragile and thin.

        “Yes, sweetheart. We can’t...if we didn’t come, we’d never forgive ourselves.”

        That was it. Jascha was sobbing again. “But you said you heard my heart stop,” he wept quietly, for fear of waking Ernest. “Dad would never agree to come. Not if he saw it himself.”

        “Oh, Jascha,” his mother said calmly. “Dad agreed to come. We...this is an...unusual situation. One we never would have expected. But...we never got your body. After-”

        “I know,” Jascha finished for her.

        “He wants to know how,” his mom said quietly. “I do too. But if Harvey says that it was you who came to the apartment, and your grandmother agrees, then…” his mother’s voice faltered, and when she spoke again she was crying. “Jascha, if you’re actually you, and you’re actually okay, then this is all we’ve wanted for the past two months.”

        “I am me,” Jascha cried too. “I promise I’m me. I’m alive.”

        He heard his mom take a shaky breath and sniffle. “Honey, your dad wants to talk to you too. Is that okay? I told him I’d kill him if he yelled at you again, so don’t worry.”

        “Please don’t kill him,” Jascha said nervously, wiping his eyes. “You can put him on.”

        “Okay,” she said softly. “We’ll be in Chicago the day after Christmas. American Christmas. Early in the morning. Give Dad your address, okay?”

        “Okay, Mom,” Jascha said quietly. There was shuffling as the phone changed hands.

        “ _Jascha?_ ” His father’s voice was its normal level of flat and unexpressive. A good sign.

        “ _Dad_ ,” Jascha said quietly.

        “ _I’m sorry_.” There was the slightest hint of emotion in his voice. “ _I was scared, when you called. I lashed out, and I’m sorry. It’s been a very hard time.”_

         _“No, it’s okay,”_ Jascha decided that he could process the five day long depressive episode being yelled at by his father sent him into with his mother once they came back. For now, he could pretend it didn’t happen. “ _I know that this is a crazy thing to ask you to believe.”_

         _“I still don’t, not entirely.”_ The ease with which his father spoke never ceased to horrify him. _“But I trust Harvey’s assessment of your appearance, and this does sound like you. And Uncle Mikhail told me that he’d come get you and bring you here if I refused to go, and your mother and grandmother both threatened to disown or kill me, so I will come.”_ He knew his father meant for the last few sentences to be lighthearted or mood-lifting, but they just scared Jascha. It didn’t help that his father’s tone never changed between serious or joking. It had taken Jascha twenty-two years of living with him and two years of therapy to learn that his father wasn’t serious all the time, and even after that it was still hard at times to tell from his tone or lack thereof.

         _“I’m glad you’ll come.”_ Jascha had trouble crying in front of his dad, even over the phone, but he could feel the desperate desire to sob again. “ _I miss you_ ,” he said softly.

         _“Jashen’ka, you have no idea how badly your mother and I have missed you,”_ his father said with uncharacteristic warmth and bittersweet sadness. _“It has been impossible without you.”_

        It was hard for Jascha to cry to his dad, but not impossible. It took several seconds of poorly stifled sniffles and sobs before he could speak again. _“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to die.”_

         _“We know,”_ his father said firmly. _“It wasn’t your fault.”_

        How long had he needed to hear that from his parents? Probably since the moment he remembered he had parents. He barely noticed when the door to the bathroom opened and Ernest sat on the floor beside him, placing a hand on his knee.

         _“Jascha, you’re too old to cry,”_ his father said quietly. As always, that made him cry more, if for no other reason than the familiarity of it. His father told him that every time he cried, for as long as he could remember. It was always with affection, and it was usually followed by a hug or a hand on his shoulder.

         _“You cried,”_ Jascha said in weak defense, wiping his eyes again.

         _“And I’m much too old to cry,”_ his father laughed slightly. He sometimes forgot his dad could do that. _“Can you tell me your address? We will come to where you are. Your mother is adamant that you not get in a car, for obvious reasons.”_

         _“It’s 1014 South Walnut Court,”_ Jascha read off a piece of Ernest’s phone. Ernest knew enough Russian to know that his dad was asking for an address, and had typed it into a text.

         _“That’s where the rich people live,”_ his father said with mild disgust. _“Why are you there? That’s so far from home.”_

         _“It’s my friend’s house,”_ Jascha realized that he’d have to somehow explain Ernest to his parents. He sighed as the new concern settled on his shoulders.

         _“I didn’t know you had friends,”_ his father said affectionately. _“I’m glad that you have a friend, even if he’s the son of a capitalist.”_

         _“Dad, you don’t like communists either,”_ Jascha rolled his eyes.

         _“I can dislike them both,”_ his father said breezily. _“Truly, I’m glad you found someone to stay with. I hope that you are eating and sleeping well.”_

         _“I...am not,”_ Jascha nearly forgot that he was pathologically unable to lie to his parents, even when they were separated by thousands of miles.

         _“Your mother will worry if you look tired and skinny.”_

         _“She worries even when I don’t look tired and skinny,”_ Jascha was thrilled by how normal their conversation was. It was just like when he was in college.

         _“She wants the phone back,”_ his father said quietly. _“Jascha, I love you. We love you. And I’m sorry, again. We’ll be with you by late morning on the 26th.”_

         _“I love you too, Dad,”_ Jascha’s voice was barely more than a whisper. There was more shuffling as the phone changed hands again.

        “Jascha,” his mother said almost desperately. “Was he nice to you? He didn’t yell, but if he was mean to you I’ll-”

        “Mom, everything is fine,” Jascha sighed. “Please, don’t threaten Dad. It makes sense that he would yell at me.”

        “No, baby, there’s never any reason to yell at you,” his mother said warmly. “You gave him the address? So we can come see you?”

        “Yes,” Jascha said quietly.

        “Good,” his mother sighed. “We told Aunt Masha and Uncle Sergei that we wouldn’t leave before they came from Vilnius, which is why we can’t fly out sooner. I really tried to get your dad to let us go, but he said he needed to see them,” Jascha could feel the slightest tinge of bitterness in his mother’s voice. She never coped well with having to wait, especially when she was worried. “You should probably go back to bed, huh?”

        “I’m...on Moscow time,” Jascha admitted quietly.

        “What? Why?” His mother’s voice raised a pitch with concern.

        “I wanted to be awake if you called,” Jascha whispered.

        “Oh, hon. I’m sorry. We should have called sooner. It’s just...a lot,” his mother’s voice grew distant and frail. “It’s been...very hard for both of us. I’m sure it’s been hard for you too.”

        “It’s okay now,” Jascha squeezed Ernest’s hand. “We’ll be together soon.”

        “We will,” his mother said wistfully. “Oh, Jascha, I hope so much that this isn’t a dream.”

        “I promise it’s real,” Jascha said, almost grimly. It had been more of a nightmare for him, up until very recently.

        “You should try to get some sleep and reset your circadian rhythm, okay?” His mother said gently. “We can’t all be jet-lagged when we meet up again.”

        “Okay,” Jascha said weakly. He didn’t want her to go. He could listen to her talk all day at this point; anything to cement her voice back into his head.

        “Jascha, I love you so much,” his mother said quietly. “I love you more than anything in this entire world. Your father does too. We’ll see you soon, okay?”

        “Yeah,” Jascha sniffled slightly. “I love you too. I really miss you.”

        “Only three and a half more days, my love,” she said wistfully. “Get some sleep, okay?”

        “Okay,” Jascha wiped his eyes again. “See you soon.”

        “See you soon,” his mother said gently before hanging up. Jascha folded up the phone slowly, locked in a dream-like trance. His parents were coming. They still loved him, and they were going to come see him.

        “Everything okay?” Ernest asked carefully, pulling Jascha back to Chicago.

        “Mhm,” Jascha nodded. Then he laughed quietly. “Ernest, they’re going to come!” He grinned, leaning back and covering his mouth with his hands. He was crying again, but he knew that the tears were joy. He let Ernest take him back to bed. He didn’t sleep, but he was happy to daydream about being reunited with his family.

 


	46. Cookies and Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry gives Victor a blow job. Victor tries to convince Henry. Jascha makes pastries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you all for the comments, kudos, and hits as we continue our long journey of finishing this fic! 
> 
> Some things to note: since all of us have resumed school, we need to shift our publishing cycle a bit (I'm sorry!!) We will now be uploading new chapters ONLY on Wednesday and Saturday. 
> 
> Trigger warnings this chapter: Discussions of abuse.

        “But Victor,” Henry whined. “Rudolf is a classic and we need to watch in right now.” He buried his face in his lover’s side. He smelled more like cookies and icing from being in the kitchen with Jascha. “You smell yummy.”

        “I will not capitulate to flattery,” Victor smiled as he held the remote to his chest. “How many Christmas movies did you watch yesterday?”

        “Only a few...” Henry trailed off. “Maybe four or five? But they were good and you wouldn’t come and cuddle me.”

        “I cuddled you all last night,” Victor wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

        “That doesn’t count. You sleep with me every night.” Henry smiled deeper against Victor’s shirt.

        “Then we can cuddle and not watch children’s movies with anatomically incorrect reindeer.” Victor clicked the TV to something else. Not sports. “We could put on the Exorcist,” he suggested.

        “That is so not in the Christmas spirit,” Henry laughed and flopped on the couch when Victor went to look for the disk.

        “Ooh, or we could do Suspiria. That will fuck us up real good.”

        Henry huffed. “That one’s candy colored. How scary could it possibly be?”

        “Dunno, I’ve never seen it. It think it’s one of Liz’s. Besides, I thought you didn’t do scary.” Vitor kept flipping through dvds.

        “I’ll take scary for snuggles.” Henry held his arms out and waited for Victor to return to him.

        “Oh! I know what’ll placate you!” Victor excitedly hopped over next to Henry.

        “A kiss?”

        Victor blushed and pressed a soft kiss to Henry’s cheek. “Black Christmas,” he said, brandishing the case. “It’s some Canadian slasher flick but hey, this is theme appropriate, hmm?” he hummed.

        Henry took the case from his hands. “Sorority girls, Victor, really?”

        “Hey, I told you these were Lizzie’s. You think my dad would let me have horror movies? Not in a million years,” He laughed and wrapped his arms around Henry’s torso, pulling him into a hug. His sweater was scratchy against the exposed skin of Henry’s neck, but it was oh so worth it. “Did you know he sometimes get squeamish during his law documentaries? It’s hysterical.”

        Henry had repositioned himself so he was practically laying on top of him, using his stomach as a pillow. “You’re soft,” he whispered.

        “You’re a nerd,” Victor whispered back, hands tangling in Henry’s hair. He leaned into the touch and purred like a kitten. “You would think I haven’t touched you in days.”

        “I don’t know, I just want to be held.” Henry smiled as Victor rubbed designs into his back. “You know, I still remember what it feels like when you spell things. We used to do it as a game in kindergarten.”

        “Oh, were you good at it?”

        “The best,” Henry smirked and the hem of Victor’s shirt rode up the tiniest bit and he kissed the strip of newly exposed skin.

        “Then what am I writing now?”

        “That you love me and that I’m a giant nerd,” Henry smiled.

        “And?”

        Henry had to wait a moment to take in the sensation. He could feel the line of warmth and electricity where Victor touched. “And you want me to go to your room with you.”

        “Bingo, let’s go.” Victor gently shoved Henry’s head off his torso and tried to pull him to his feet.

        “I thought we were gonna watch a movie?” He asked. The innocent blinking of his eyes did not match his roguish grin. He grabbed Victor’s hand and allowed himself to be led up the stairs. Victor looked over his shoulder and the light from the chandelier made his dark hair glow. “You look really handsome.”

        Victor blinked slowly, a blush creeping down his neck. He quickly looked away, hoping that Henry didn’t notice, but he did. “You’re really handsome, too.”

        Henry barely registered the lock of the room until he felt his back pressed against the door. Victor placed both hands gently on his chest and he looked straight into Henry’s eyes. “Can I kiss you?”

        “Yes,” Victor said as he stood on his tiptoes to kiss Henry’s lips. It didn’t take long before he moved his hands under Henry’s shirt and traced his fingers along the curve of his back. The warmth of Victor’s touch seeped into his muscles and helped him relax. He opened his mouth and invited Victor to deepen the kiss.

        It felt like Henry was drunk off mead, and warmth blossomed around him like flower petals. Gracelessly, he took off his sweater and threw it over a chair. He felt guilty, for a moment, for not folding it properly, but the thought disappeared as Victor kissed his sternum and along his collarbone, pulling needily at his waist.

        “I want you,” he whispered breathlessly, pulling Henry towards the bed. Their bed.      

        “Can I take off your shirt?” Henry asked and Victor nodded vigorously.  After he pushed the fabric off his shoulder, he took a minute to really look at Victor. His slim frame had started filling out a little bit since he started regularly eating again and his skin was no longer a vampiric pale. He gently urged Victor to lay back on the bed as he started to kiss down his chest and stomach. He wanted to touch every part of Victor's body with his lips.

        “Touch me, please,” Victor whispered. Henry could feel the heat of his erection through the fabric as he cradled it against his palm.

        “Can I...?” Henry asked with his fingers gently tracing around Victor’s waist band.

        “Please, Henry, don’t stop,” Victor moaned into the tender part of his wrist. His blush had spread from his cheeks to his chest and made his skin glow.

        After Henry thoroughly disrobed them both, he settled himself against Victor’s chest and basked in the sensation of being flush against his skin. Their erections rubbed against each other as Victor moved his hips. He started to rehearse the words in his head. He wanted it to be perfect. Victor began kissing the shell of his ear and all sorts of coherent thought completely left his brain. He moaned against the crook of Victor’s neck.

        “Victor,” his voice was completely breathless. “Can I try something...I…” Damn it. What was the slang word for it? He didn’t want to sound weird. He looked at Victor with his half-lidded eyes and parted lips and decided it really didn’t matter. “Can I perform oral sex on you?”

        Victor’s eyes widened and he pulled Henry to eye level before kissing him again. “You want to give me a blowjob?”

        “That’s the word for it!” Henry said excitedly. He couldn’t even hear his internal monologue. “I had forgotten.”                                                                                                                                    

        “You’re lovely,” Victor said in between kisses to his throat and clavicle.

        “I do. I really, really do. Is that okay?” Henry asked as he settled between Victor’s legs again. He kissed his navel and the crease where his leg met his torso before moving to the tender skin of his inner thighs.

        Henry pressed a gentle kiss to the head of Victor’s cock and languished in the delightful little sounds he made. He ran his fingers down the length of his shaft and Victor began to groan in earnest.

        “Please,  _please_   Henry. You’re such. A tease.” It seemed difficult for him to get the words out.

        Victor’s cock was warm and heavy against his tongue. He found, much to his joyous delight, that Victor was very vocal in bed. Henry was able to experiment. A flick of his tongue here, the twist of his wrist there and he was able to pull beautiful music from Victor’s throat. Henry vaguely registered in the back of his mind that his own cock ached with need. He grabbed it and moaned which sent Victor further down the path of ecstasy. He moved in time with his mouth and felt tendrils of warmth begin to coil in his stomach. For a moment, they flashed bright red, but he felt Victor’s hands in his hair and it faded back to a thrumming gold.

        “Henry, oh  _ Henry _ ,” Victor moaned, not even trying to keep himself quiet anymore. “I love you. I love you so much,” he cut himself off with a gasp. “I think. I think I’m going to--”

        Henry sighed as Victor came into his mouth. As he swallowed, it tasted warm and bitter and oh so like Victor. His lover already twined his arms around his waist and pulled him into a sweet kiss before focusing his attention lower. He replaced Henry’s hand on his cock and he moaned into the crook of Victor’s neck. He leaned against Victor’s chest as he kept his free hand splayed over Henry’s belly.

        “Let me take care of you,” Victor whispered and he playfully nibbled on the shell of Henry’s ear. Streams of electricity shot through him right to his cock.

        “I don’t think--” Henry tried to speak, but the words were mumbled and lost to pleasure. “I can’t last much longer.”

        “It’s okay,” Victor hummed. He kissed Henry’s shoulder. “Please cum for me.”

        Henry felt the heaving of his shoulders against Victor’s chest as he came over his fingers. As he rode through the blinding warmth of his orgasm, Victor cradled him in his arms and played with his hair.

        “Where are you going?” Henry whined as Victor began to disentangle himself.

        “I’m just going to get us some clothes and something to clean you up with.” he smiled and kissed Henry’s forehead.

        He returned with a warm cloth and pajamas, which Henry happily accepted. They cuddled in a daze with their legs tangled softly together and Victor whispering sweet nothings into the back of his neck. Spirits of warmth and light fluttered around Henry’s head and he wanted to sleep in Victor’s arms forever and ever. He felt his heart beating against his back and Victor’s hands were placed gently on his chest.  

        And then the phone rang. Once. Twice. Henry groaned and started to extract himself from Victor.

        “No,” he keened as he shoved his face in Henry’s hair. “No phone calls. Only snuggles.”

        “William is twelve. Jascha and Ernest are Jascha and Ernest-ing and Alphonse is still out. It’s fine. I’ll be back before you even know it.”

        Victor grumbled in disapproval but let him take the call.

        “Hello, this is the Frankenstein residence,” Henry said as he brought the phone back to Victor’s bedroom.

        “Hello, may I--” the woman on the other line was weeping. “May I speak to my son, Henry Lucien?”

        “Mother?” he asked and Victor shot to his side.

        “You don’t need to do this. Just hang up,” Victor whispered in his ear as he held his hand. Henry was about to listen too, until his mother started speaking.

        “Henry--” she never just called him Henry. “I saw the article in the newspaper.” Silence hung thick in the air like ink. “I hid it from your father, but there’s only so long I--” she tried to bite back a sob. “Will you ever be able to forgive me?”

        “I...Mother…” the words tasted like blood in Henry’s mouth. “I  begged  you to leave. I  _ begged _ . And you stayed with him even though he beat me. He beat you.” Tears rolled his cheeks and Victor wiped them away with the pad of his thumb.

        “I have so many things I need to tell you,” Meredith sobbed harder. “I’ve missed you so much, Henry. I didn’t think I’d ever get to hear your voice again. Please come to church with me tomorrow. I just want to hold you one more time.”

        “Mama--”

        “No,” Victor said, loud enough for Meredith to hear. “No, you’re just going to drag him back to your hellhole of a house and give him back to that monster you call a husband. You don’t deserve him.”

        “No, no, no, no,” Meredith wept. “I don’t deserve him. I never have. You were the one bright thing in my life, Henry.”

        “Until I told you I was gay,” Henry’s voice hardened.

        “Until Lawrence decided he didn’t want you anymore. I can’t begin to describe, Henry. I tried,” She tried to gasp for breath as she panicked into the receiver. “I tried so hard to protect you and I failed. And I failed and I failed and I failed. He kept hurting my son. He kept hurting my baby boy and I watched. I watched it happen. Please,” she begged. “Just one more time. Then never again. I need to tell you in person how wrong I was.”

        “And you won’t bring Father?” Henry’s voice was weak from tears.

        “I lied and told him I was going to visit some of my friends.”

        “Are you safe?” Henry pressed his face into Victor’s chest and tried to hold back his sobs.

        “No, but it’s worth it to say goodbye to you,”

        “At Holy Name?” he asked.

        “Yes.”

        “I’ll come,” Henry conceded and Victor pulled away in shock. “But if I think something bad is going to happen then I’m going to leave, no questions asked.”

        “Thank you,” Meredith sobbed. “I love you. I always have.”

        “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mother.” Henry said as he hung up the phone.

 

* * *

 

        “What do you  _mean_   you’re going to see her?” Victor couldn’t keep the frustration out his voice. “Why did you agree to that?”

        Henry stared at the phone in his hand numbly. “I mean,” Henry’s breath was high and hitched, “she asked to meet me.”

        “I’m aware of what happened, I’m just not-” Victor bit his tongue as Henry seemed to shrink away from him. His voice must have gotten loud without his realizing. Harnessing the emerging guilt, Victor mastered his tone into something he hoped to be soft and comforting. “Henry, are you sure you want to do this?”

        “I don’t know.” Henry said. “I think so.” Victor struggled to get a proper read on his emotions but there was just too much output to sort through, weird mixes of anxiety and panic and happiness and anger and fear, flicking over and through each other too fast to solidify. It set Victor on edge. Henry was usually so easy to read, after all.

        “But are you sure?” He repeated again, taking care to emphasize the words.

        “I’m sure.” Henry said, stoutly this time. His grip on the phone tightened. As he walked over to put place it on the dresser, Victor continued to hover beside him.

        “Because you don’t have to.” He said. “You don’t owe your mom anything, especially not a meeting,  _especially_   not after what happened last time.”

        “She said she’d come alone. And that my father doesn't know.” Even the very mention of Henry’s dad seemed to push more buzzing energy into the already cluttered room. Victor offered a hand to Henry, immeasurably grateful when the other took it.

        “Henry,” he rubbed the knuckles gently and tried to insert as much sympathetic energy as possible into his gaze, “she said she lied and that she wasn’t safe. There’s no real guarantee that your father won’t find out about the meeting.” He hesitated for a beat, debating the wisdom of what he wanted to say next as he searched Henry’s still wary face. “She sounded off.”

        Henry laughed, an odd, bitter sound which did not match the sudden sorrow on his face. “She’s scared for her life, Victor.” He said miserably. “Of course she sounded off.”

        “No,” Victor shook his head, “Henry, she sounded really, really off. Like, I can’t quite put my finger on how but…” He brought his free hand to Henry’s cheek. “I don’t trust this. Please, just...reconsider the meeting.”

        “I can’t.” Henry said shakily. “I can’t miss this chance.”

        “You can.” Victor pushed back. “You don’t have to cancel it, just rearrange the date, pick a different location, anything. There’s something wrong here, I can feel it.”

        Henry screwed his eyes shut and leaned into Victor’s hand. “I can’t.” He repeated. “If she’s hiding the news article from my father, it’s really only a matter of time before…” The implication hung like a noose.

        Good, Victor thought passionately; vindictively; despite himself. She deserved it for everything that happened; everything she let happen. There was no excuse for hurting Henry like that woman did, especially not when Victor knew there were ways to prevent it. Honestly, he’d be happy if she dropped dead right this instant. But, of course, he couldn’t say that to Henry.

        With care, Victor tugged Henry back to the bed and coaxed him into sitting. He felt the other man relax minutely as Victor settled him into his arms, which, in turn, invited a fresh wave of tears. “She sounded so scared, Victor.” Henry whispered through stuttering breaths.

        “She did.” Victor admitted.

        “And she’s risking so much to see me.” A wary hope had crawled its way through the tears and across Henry’s face, Victor noted with a grimace. “Maybe she’s...maybe she’s planning to leave him? Maybe she-”

        “Henry, she said she wanted to say goodbye.” Victor reminded him soothingly as he pet his hair back.

        “I know.” Henry said quickly. “But...maybe…”

        Victor hated this. Why couldn’t that witch of a woman just leave Henry alone? He didn’t deserve this. Hell, no one deserved what Henry had been through but especially not him. Never him.  “I don’t think you should get your hopes up.” Victor said softly, watching his lover from the corner of his eye.

        “Yeah, you’re right.” Henry agreed. The hope didn’t leave him. “You’re right.”

        Victor fidgeted in his seat but passed it off by adjusting Henry more fully into his arms. “Okay.” He said firmly. “Well, if you’re determined to see her, then I’ll go with you.”

        “No.” Henry said.

        Victor blinked. “No?” He asked incredulously. “Why not?”

        “I said  _ I’d _  meet with her.” Henry looked briefly apologetic. “I need to do this alone.”

        “No.” He clipped.

        “Victor-”

        “No.” Victor pulled back from Henry, accidentally causing the man to fall back on the bed, and stared at him intently. “No way. No way am I letting you go by yourself.”

        “I need to.” There were still too many emotions flitting Henry’s features and now, caught in the midst of his own small panic, Victor couldn’t even begin to process them.

        “You absolutely do not.” Victor stressed. “Your mother can’t ask you to go alone. She knows you’re already in danger and she’s putting you in so much more by even asking you to come. That isn’t fair.”

        “She didn’t ask me to come alone, I decided to. I can handle it.” Henry said with obviously falsified confidence as he sat up.

        “No you can’t.” Victor begged. He grabbed Henry by the upper arms and pulled him closer. “You cannot do this on your own. I- I don’t care who you take but please just take someone with you. Like Justine, she’s scary as shit. She can protect you.”

        “I don’t need protection.” Henry said in a way Victor was sure was supposed to be comforting but came across as mostly desperate. “My father won’t find out.”

        “She sounded off.” Victor said emphatically. “ _Off_ ,  Henry .  This is already such a risky situation-”

        “I told you, she’s scared.”

        “No she’s not.” Victor had no clue where the idea had come from but at once he knew it to be true. “She sounded resigned, not scared. She sounded like she knows she has nothing left to lose.”

        That forced Henry to pause but he brushed it aside. “It might be risky.” He conceded. “But I’ve got to at least try. For my sake. She’s my mom.”

        “Family doesn’t mean shit.” Victor snapped, temper flaring. “And she’s never acted like a mom to you before. Why now? Why does she want to apologize now?”

        “I think the article might have, I don’t know, brought some things to light. Given her some clarity.” Victor wanted to rip the hope from Henry’s voice almost as much as he wanted to cherish its presence. He wanted Henry to be optimistic for a different reason, any other reason at all.  “Maybe she’s changed.”

        “People don’t change.” Victor snarled. “Ever.”

        “You did.” Henry returned with the utmost earnestness.

        Victor didn’t know how to respond so he released Henry and leaned back slightly. He swallowed. “Then take someone with you.”

        “I can’t.”

        “Henry, my love,” Victor pleaded, “please.  _Please_.  I know you’re not this dumb.”

        “I’ll make sure to let you know as soon as I’m finished. Plus you’ll know exactly where I am if anything goes wrong. I’ll be safe.” He offered Victor a weak smile. “And smart.”

        “And I can’t change your mind.” Victor summarized.

        “You can’t.” Henry said, genuine conviction coloring the words even as nervousness won the war of emotions and came crashing out into his figure, manifesting in stiffened shoulders and drawn brows and shaking hands.

        Victor sighed and drew Henry back into his arms once more, rubbing small circles into his back. “Okay. Okay, fine. I trust you.” He burrowed his face into the crook of Henry’s neck. “But I’m not happy about it.”

        “I know.” Henry muttered into Victor’s pajamas. “God,” he laughed feebly, “what a mood killer.”

        Victor snorted slightly. “Seriously. I mean, I’d offer to go for round two but I think we may be a bit tired for that.”

        “You mean a bit too panicked.” Henry corrected with a raised eyebrow.

        Victor manufactured a sweet smile. “While I trust your ability to get off while battling an anxiety attack, I know for a fact that I cannot.”

        “How on earth would you know that?” Henry asked, mystified.

        “I was a weird fucking kid with near to constant anxiety. You connect the dots.” He sighed wistfully. “So many failed mastrubation sessions. So much Star Trek porn. All in vain. Oh well.” With great reluctance, Victor untangled himself from Henry, much to the other’s vocal displeasure. “It’s okay,” Victor assured him as he stretched. “I’m just going to grab some of those weird Russian cookies Jascha’s flooding our house with and a movie to put in. You wanted Rudolph, right?”

        “I thought you were morally opposed.” Henry teased and Victor felt a flush of relief to hear his voice had shifted to a more genuinely even and relaxed tone, even if it still held the brushing edges of fear and anxiety.

        “I can make an exception for you.”

        “And are you still going to complain throughout the whole thing?”

        “I do that with every movie we watch.” Victor quipped. “Always have, always will, and you can’t do anything about it because you love me.”

        “Well,” Henry said with a roguish grin, “I know reliable one way to shut you up at least.”

        Victor laughed in surprise as he felt a blush rise to his cheeks. “No way. I’m not making out with you while Rudolph plays in the background.” He hesitated as Henry's bright eyes caught the setting sun from the window and shone as his dorky grin grew. Okay, he thought as he felt his throat go dry, maybe he’d be down for a round two after all. “I’ll grab the slasher flick.” He said hurriedly.

        He was confident neither he or Henry actually watched any of the movie. While they weren’t making out, Victor devoted himself to cuddling every single shred of tenseness or worry out his lover’s body, and while they kissed, he did much the same, making sure that every sound and movement communicated to Henry just how unbelievably, unbearably, and unquestioningly loved he really was.

        Henry’s hands, soft and sweet tangled in his hair; his tender lips, his hips pressed against Victor’s thighs as he sat practically in Henry’s lap; it was all so addictive and Victor found himself wishing, ludicrously, that the moment would never end; that he could keep Henry here forever, keep him safe and loved and warm and near, that tomorrow would never come.

        For the first time in his life, Victor was not looking forward to Christmas Eve.

 

* * *

  

        “How do you say ‘hello’?” William asked, hovering near Jascha’s left arm. After dinner, he’d sent Ernest on a covert mission to Barnes and Noble to retrieve the book Victor recommended for William’s gift, which mean that Jascha was on child entertainment duty since neither Henry nor Victor were anywhere to be seen.

        “Labas,” Jascha said, filling another trubochki. “Or Sveiki.”

        “Sveeky,”

        “Sveiki,” Jascha corrected. He went to brush back his hair out of habit, only to remember that he’d pinned it back with a few of Lizzie’s bobby pins. “Can you hand me more powdered sugar?”

        “How do you say ‘thank you’?” William asked, grabbing the plastic container of confectioners sugar.

        “Ačiū,” Jascha smiled as he took the sugar from William.

        “Achoo,” William laughed.

        “Close enough,” Jascha finished up the last few pastries before moving them from the tray onto the empty platter. In the past day, he’d managed to amass quite a good stock of baked goods ranging from sugar cookies to trubochki and apple filled pirogis.

        Jascha took off the apron he’d been wearing and draped it over the back of a chair, sitting across from William at the kitchen counter. William had eaten no less than ten cookies in the past two hours, and he was looking quite pleased with himself.

        “Where did Ernest go?” William asked, grabbing one of the new pastries.

        “He’s out running an errand,” Jascha picked the little clips out of his hair, shaking it out. His still-too-long bangs flopped over his eyes. “He’ll be back any minute.”

        “Are your mom and dad coming to see you soon?” William asked, mouth full of trubochki. “You seem happy again.”

        Jascha grinned and nodded. “They’ll be here in two days,” he said jubilantly. “Alphonse said they could stay here for a while.”

        “Are they nice?” William cocked his head slightly; like Ernest. “Henry’s parents aren’t very nice. Neither are Justine’s.”

        “My parents are very nice,” Jascha said gently. “My dad seems scary, but he isn’t. He just doesn’t really have facial expressions. My mom is the best.”

        “That’s good,” William said with odd firmness. “I’ve never met anyone else’s parents. Not really. Do you think they’ll like me?”   
        “My mom will love you,” Jascha reassured. “My dad is impossible to read, but he will like you too.”

        Jascha got up as he saw headlights glint down the driveway. He met Ernest at the door, who beamed and held up the paper bag like a trophy. William trailed him to the entryway, so Ernest had to hide the bag pretty quickly. Thankfully, Lizzie and Justine resurfaced at about the same time.

        “Willie!” Lizzie called as she walked down the stairs. “Do you want to watch a movie with me and Justine?”

        William’s eyes narrowed. “Horror?”   
        “Nah, we were thinking of watching A Christmas Story,” Justine said. “You two are also welcome to join.” Jascha looked to Ernest, who glanced between him and Justine.

        “I think Jascha and I might just go upstairs,” Ernest said with an apologetic smile. Jascha had to look away as Lizzie smirked at him.

        “Suit yourself,” Justine said lightly.

        Jascha followed Ernest halfway up the stairs before taking his hand. “We should talk about my parents,” Jascha said quietly. He’d been so high on the euphoria from his phonecall that he hadn’t actually planned for their arrival. And he needed to find out if it was okay for him to tell his mom that Ernest wasn’t just a friend.

        “Of course,” Ernest smiled. “How was baking with William?”

        “He thinks Lithuanian is funny,” Jascha said lightly. Ernest opened the door to his room; he was no longer keeping it locked when he wasn’t there. He always locked it once they were inside, though. Once secure, Jascha pulled Ernest into a hug. “I missed you.”

        Ernest laughed, kissing him on the cheek. “I was gone for, like, an hour. Maybe two, max.” He pulled Jascha to the bed, and they lay together, tangled in each other’s arms. “So, what did you want to tell me about your parents?”

        Jascha pressed his forehead against Ernest’s and closed his eyes. “My dad might seem very scary,” he said after a second. “He isn’t expressive like Alphonse, and he has a strong accent. He’s loving and kind, but he tends to be very impassive.”

        “And your mom?” Ernest traced the many patterns on Jascha’s sweater. “She seemed a little, you know. Unstable the first time you called.”

        Jascha sighed. “She isn’t. She...has had a lot of trouble in the past. Before I was born. I think she just couldn’t handle the grief.”

        “So she’s okay?” Ernest’s gaze met his own, dark eyes filled with compassionate concern. “Like, she isn’t gonna be in any danger?”

        Jascha shook his head and pressed the two of them closer together. “She’s okay. Things will probably be very emotional for all of us, but not in a dangerous way at all.” Jascha paused. “Ernest?” He asked, anxiety forming a tight not in his chest.

        “Hm?” Ernest hummed, nestling against Jascha’s chest.

        “I...want to tell them. About you,” Jascha asked softly. Guilt shot through him as he felt Ernest tense.

        “Like, that we’re, you know…” Ernest trailed off.

        “Yes,” Jascha ran his fingers through his hair, toying with the fluffy curls.

        “Is it safe?”

        Jascha had asked himself that question at least a hundred times in the past thirty-six hours. His mother, absolutely. His father was...Russian. He knew that, as dangerous as it was to be gay here, it was more dangerous in Russia. His family wasn’t known for being great lovers of Russian law or ideals, but he’d never heard them say anything about same-sex couples, good or bad. “My mom wouldn’t mind, especially since you’re perfect,” Jascha smiled as Ernest laughed quietly and kissed his neck. “My dad...will probably have more trouble. But he defers to my mother whenever he doesn’t understand an American thing.”

        “Is being gay an American thing?” Ernest asked into his neck.

        “It’s not a Russian thing, which means that my dad would assume it’s American. Anything he doesn’t understand falls into the American Things category.” Jascha smiled. He was reminded of the first time he went to McDonald’s with his parents, and how it had taken his mother nearly twenty minutes to explain the concept of a ‘happy meal’ to his dad.

        “Your dad sounds weird,” Ernest said lightly.

        “He is,” Jascha said affectionately. “Oh, he’s also taller than me.”

        “What?!” Ernest pulled away. “How? You’re, like, the tallest person I know.”

        “I’m only maybe six-three or four. My dad is closer to six-five or six-six,” Jascha smiled, kissing Ernest on the forehead. “My mom is Victor’s height. Five-nine.”

        “Your whole family is pretty tall, huh?” Ernest kissed his hand.

        “Mhm,” Jascha closed his eyes, snuggling close to Ernest again. They were both quiet for a while. Jascha was happy to be able to just be curled around Ernest. They hadn’t cuddled as much when Jascha was sad, and now he was fairly desperate for physical contact. The arms that held him were strong and warm, and both of them still smelled like freshly baked pastries. Soon he would be able to introduce his parents to Ernest and have all the people he loved the most in one place. It would be ideal.

        “Jascha?” Ernest broke the silence.

        “Yeah?” Anxiety twisted in him slightly. “Is something wrong?”

        “No,” Ernest said lightly, stroking Jascha’s brow where it had tightened.

        “What’s up?” Jascha asked, reassured only slightly by Ernest’s hand on his cheek.

        Ernest blushed slightly, and Jascha relaxed. If he was blushing it probably wasn’t anything serious. “I was wondering if you’d be, like, interested in possibly trying something. Not, like, tonight or anything, but, like, in the future.”

        “Trying what?” Jascha asked quietly. Ernest blushed more and ran a hand through his hair. For whatever reason, he couldn’t meet Jascha’s gaze.

        “So, like, I was thinking, since we’re, you know, actually gay now, we could probably try having sex,” Ernest said laboriously. “Like, real gay sex. You know?”

        “I don’t,” Jascha blushed. He’d been under the assumption that they’d been having ‘real’ sex this whole time. He couldn’t think what else would be realer than the blowjobs they’d been enjoying, unless...  “Oh. Wait. You mean…penetrative sex?”

        “Uh, yeah,” Ernest laughed awkwardly. “Like, I’m super satisfied with everything we do already. It’s just, you know.” Ernest looked at him with shy embarrassment. “I may have, like, thought about it a couple times. In the shower.”

        “You mean when you masturbate?” Jascha asked, his own cheeks growing warm. Ernest laughed and covered his face with his hands.

        “Every time you say it like that I get so embarrassed.” Ernest said through his hands. Jascha smiled and pulled them away from his face, kissing him gently.

        “I don’t care,” Jascha said between kisses. “I think you’re cute when you’re embarrassed. Your freckles are very sweet when you blush.” He grinned, as that only made Ernest smile and blush more.

        “Dude, you are so sappy.” Ernest giggled. There truly was no greater feeling than kissing Ernest’s lips as he smiled or laughed, and Jascha folded him in his arms. “So...what do you think? About trying it?”

        Jascha wavered. He hadn’t thought much about it until now. He knew a bit about it from being forced to listen to Cleo’s friends talk about their weird sex lives, and he knew it was known for being quite painful if it was done incorrectly, even if it could feel good. “How does it go? In your head when you, uh, shower,” Jascha asked quietly. If he knew what Ernest wanted, it would help him decide if he wanted it too. He usually wanted whatever Ernest did, since the best part of sex was him, but pain had never been a question between them before.

        “I mean…” Ernest laughed nervously. “Depends on the mood, I guess?” He sighed. “Do you  _ really _  want to hear me talk to you about what I jerk off to?”

        “Yes,” Jascha smirked, nuzzling his hair. He smelled soft. He wasn’t sure what soft smelled like, but it was how Ernest always smelled.

        Another sigh. “Okay, fine,” Ernest resigned himself to his fate. “I guess in general it’s just, like, emotionally the same as whenever we have sex, but more intense. Like, I’d be able to see your face and we could kiss while it happened, which we can’t really do during blowjobs.”

        Jascha chewed the inside of his cheek. That sounded fine. Good, even. But it didn’t address the more important technical issues surrounding the act. “Who would do what?” Jascha asked. “What would your preference be?”

        “I mean, I don’t know. It’s not like I’ve done it before,” Ernest said thoughtfully. “And I, literally never had successful sex with a girl. Like, the normal version of penetrative sex. I always either faked it or just gave up,” Ernest paused. “In the shower I usually imagined being on the receiving end of it. If that, like, sounds okay.”

        “Mhm,” Jascha nodded hesitantly. It didn’t sound  not  okay. And he did kind of want to try it. But there was the question of pain. Even if Ernest wanted him to do it, there was no guarantee that it wouldn’t hurt. “What if it hurts? I don’t want to hurt you,” he asked gently.

        “I...don’t know. If we use plenty of lube and stuff it shouldn’t hurt, right?” Ernest glanced up at him for the first time in the whole conversation. Jascha shrugged. “We can always try it and stop if it doesn’t feel good.”

        “That’s true,” Jascha nodded. “When did you want to try it?”

        “We’d have to do it, like, either before your parents come visit or like wait a while,” Ernest relaxed a bit. “It’s up to you.”

        “We can try it the next time we have sex,” Jascha decided. If he made that agreement with himself, he’d actually do it. Any other, more nebulous answer would mean near-permanent avoidance, since trying new things is always stressful.

        Ernest laughed. “So, like, tomorrow or Christmas?”

        “Maybe later,” Jascha smiled.

        “We’re going to hit a week without sex as of tomorrow. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not be horny while your family is visiting,” Ernest said lightly, kissing him on the cheek. “Besides, I’ve already been missing it. Six days is a long time,” he smirked.

        “It’s not that long,” Jascha said defensively, though Ernest’s smile was contagious and he couldn’t resist returning it. He was missing sex too, especially the intimacy of it. “We can try it in the next couple days, I guess.”

        “Cool,” Ernest’s blush was waning slightly as he grew comfortable again. Jascha rolled over so he was laying more or less across his chest, burying his face in Ernest’s hair. He sighed contentedly as Ernest massaged his back. It was one of his many talents.

        “Ernest?” Jascha said against the pillow.

        “Hm?”

        “I love you,” Jascha whispered against his ear. “I’m sorry I was depressed for most of the week,” he added. He closed his eyes as Ernest hugged him.

        “You don’t need to apologize,” Ernest’s voice was affectionate and sweet like honey. “I love you, and it’s okay to be sad.”

        “Mhm,” Jascha nodded, relaxing again while Ernest returned to his endless task of gently working out all the knots in his back. “I’m not sad anymore.”

        “I’m glad,” Jascha could hear the warm smile in his voice. He wrapped his arms around Ernest and let himself melt against him, completely and utterly happy and peaceful.

 


	47. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry talks to his mom. Victor fantasizes about murder. Jascha and Ernest have sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello All! Thank you so much for sticking with us as we get started with the new school year! Comments and kudos are always appreciated! We want to know what you think!!
> 
> Content Warnings for this chapter are: discussions of past abuse

        “Henry, are you sure you want to do this?” Alphonse’s voice rose with his eyebrows. “As your primary guardian for the past decade, I have to insist that it’s probably not a great idea.” He paced around the kitchen.

        “I think it’s the only chance I have.” Henry halfheartedly picked at his breakfast. Alphonse stopped and turned on his heels to look at him.

        “Henry, I promise your mother loves you very much.” Something in Alphonse’s face contorted. “But you have no idea if or when your father is going to find out about this...rendezvous, and there will be nothing anyone can do if he finds you again. I’m afraid--”

        “That this time he’ll kill me?” Henry felt something snap in his heart when he looked into Alphonse’s eyes.

        “Yes, yes. I know your mother well, Henry. This isn’t normal for her. I think it’s reasonable and logical to be suspicious of her motivations.”

        “She would never out me to my father. Even when things were really bad, she never put me there on purpose.” Henry’s voice became frantic. “She’s a victim of him, just as much as I am.”

        “I know. That’s not what I meant. I need you to think. Why would she want to say goodbye? Why today?” Alphonse sat in a chair. “Henry, you’re an adult so if you really feel that this is a good idea, then I won’t stop you, but please be safe.” He handed him a phone. “Worst comes to worst, call me. It also has GPS tracking on it, so I’ll know where you are. Is that alright?”

        Henry nodded and turned the device over in his hands. “Yeah, yeah that’s fine.”

        “And you know your public transport routes? And alternates? Are you’re sure you don’t want me to drive you?” Alphonse worried.

        “I don’t know when I’ll be done. I couldn’t keep you.”

        “It’s Christmas Eve. I have no work, Victor has no therapy, and my other children can entertain themselves just fine. I would be happy to,” he sighed. “What I’m trying to say is, please let me drive you.”

        Henry agreed.

        The Holy Name Cathedral was a hulking mass of neo-gothic architecture dropped right smack in the middle of Chicago. It still seemed as huge and imposing now at the age of twenty-three as it did when Henry was eight. Even just seeing that light stone and brass doors made Henry want to run in the opposite direction. It wasn’t that anything bad had happened there, per se. It was that there was always the potential of something horrible to happen, and today was no exception.

        A couple of tourists filtered in to take pictures of the arching stained glass windows or the bronze crucifix backed by bloody marble. Meredith was sitting on a pew, her hair in perfect pin-curls and her clothes the very picture of a rich housewife from the 50’s. He sat next to her and kept his eyes trained strictly ahead as she prayed.

        “Henry Lucien?” She asked, lips pressed to her clasped hands. “Have you gone to church since you left?”

        He was an idiot. To lie or not to lie? That was the question. “I haven’t. The Frankensteins aren’t religious and it’s kinda hard to believe in a benevolent god when I was beaten and neglected my entire childhood.”

        “I haven’t been going much either.” Meredith did not break her line of sight from the crucifix.

        “Oh?” That didn’t follow. Not at all. His mother had never missed even a mass when he was little.

        “Do you think God will forgive me?”

        Henry forced himself to tap back into the years of Sunday school and Confirmation classes. “God will forgive your sins if you truly repent for them. After all, skipping church is just venial. Most sins are.”

        “Henry, I think I’ve committed many mortal sins. I’m afraid I will commit more.”

        “I’m not a priest. You can’t confess to me here.” 

        “It doesn't matter if a priest hears me say it. I’m already lost. All that matters is you.” She finally looked at him, tears swimming in her eyes.

        “Then come back with me.” Henry didn’t expect to beg. “Alphonse can keep you safe. You don’t have to be with my father. Run away!” His voice soared to the roof and mixed with the drone of the pipe organ. “I would have done anything-- _anything_ to have had you back as a kid. You loved me once.”

        “Henry Lucien, I’ve always loved you.”

        “No,” Henry snarled. “You sent me to Waldman. That was your decision. That’s not what a loving mother does.”

        “I was wrong. It was so difficult to learn of your...leanings. He helped your father so much. I thought it could help you too. I’m sorry Henry. I’m so, so sorry.”

        “It’s not a curse or a disease or whatever you seem to think it is.” Henry’s voice softened. “There’s nothing to fix.”

        “I know that now. Is there any way you could ever forgive me?” Meredith pleaded. She was all but on her knees.

        “For that? Yes, I can forgive you.” Henry felt sick. Years of trauma and abuse were not so easily washed away with a single apology.

        “But not for other things.” for Meredith, it was a statement, not a question.

        “You let _that man_ torture me for years. Once, you’d have tried to protect me.”

        “He said he’d kill you.” Meredith broke down into sobs. “He said he’d kill you if I tried to help. You were so small! I couldn’t let him kill you! Not for my freedom! Not for anything!”

        Henry did remember. Very clearly. His father had held him by his hair and she cried and didn’t stop for days.

        “You told me we were going to Grandma’s and we had to be really quiet.” Henry wiped tears from his cheeks. “Why would he want to kill me? I was a kid! Why!?”

        “I don’t know, Henry. I don’t know.” Meredith lifted a hand to Henry’s cheek. “Henry Lucien, tell me you’re happy.”

        “I’m...I’m happy. I...have a family that loves me now and friends and Victor. It’s not...easy, but it’s good.” Henry leaned into her palm. “Why?”

        “I need to hear it. That my baby boy is going to be okay.”

        “You could still come with me. I promise.”

        “Henry, I’m not going to be living with your father anymore.” Meredith closed her eyes.

        “But you aren’t coming with me.” The pang of defeat rang in Henry’s chest. “Where will you go? Please, I know it’s scary--”

        “I’m just...going away and I don’t think I’ll be able to see you again. You won’t go where I’m going.”

        “Mama, where? I can help! I promise!” Henry sobbed.

        Meredith pulled Henry into a hug. “I need you not to worry about me. I’ll send a note when I get there.”

        “You said you were going to commit more moral sins.” Henry held her upper arm.

        “It’s nothing like that.” Meredith smiled sadly. “I promise this will be good for us.”

        The church bells chimed noon and Henry could feel them vibrate the air in his ears and ribcage.

        “I need to go now, Henry.” She said his name as if it were a prayer. She stood and hugged him. Even in heels, she only came up to his chin. “I love you.”

 

* * *

 

        “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.” Justine didn’t even look up from her book as Victor paced past her for approximately the thousandth time in the last hour.

        “I’m stressed,” Victor replied flippantly.

        “I couldn’t tell.” Justine turned a page. “Your pacing isn’t going to make him come back any faster though. You should sit down.”

        “I’m going to have a heart attack,” Victor announced, clutching one hand to his chest. “I’m dying. I can’t feel my toes and I smell burning toast.”

        “That’s because William just made himself lunch, dumbass,” Justine said dryly but without any true malice. As Victor passed again, she shot out a hand and grabbed his wrist. “Sit,” She commanded. “It’s going to be fine.”

        “Is it?” Victor laughed only slightly maniacally. “Is it really? ‘Cause last time it certainly wasn’t and Henry wasn’t even actively putting himself in danger then.”

        That made Justine pause, the barest flicker of concern crossing her features before it was once again smoothed beneath her cool exterior. “She just wanted to say goodbye. We should trust Henry's judgement on this,” Justine said.

        “She’s a monster and I hope she gets hit by a bus,” Victor hissed. “I hope she and Lawrence kill each other. The world would be better off without absolute scum like them in it.”

        “That would hurt Henry,” Justine said

        “He’d be fine. I survived my mom’s death and she was the best person in the universe.” Victor yanked his hand away from Justine’s loose grasp and continued in his furious pace. “Hell,” he muttered darkly, “maybe I could kill her. I know well enough how to make it look like an accident.”

        “But you won’t,” Justine reminded him. “Because you don’t want to mess up Henry like that.”

        Victor groaned to avoid screaming in frustration. “God, I hate this so much,” he declared as he dragged his hands down his face.

        Justine sighed and stood. Once more catching him by the wrist, she pulled him back to the couch and forced him into a sitting position. “Stay,” she instructed as if talking to a particularly dimwitted dog. “I swear to you, it’s okay.”

        “Do you really believe that?” Victor snapped despite his best efforts to cull the urge. “Little Miss 1950s Wet Dream contacts Henry out of nowhere after holding him hostage and forcing him into fucking conversion therapy, claiming that she’s had a _sudden, total_ change of heart, asks him to leave all of us to meet her in a church, and we’re just supposed to believe nothing bad is going to happen? I mean, does nobody but me think this might be a little sketchy?!”

        Justine offered him a weary look. “We need to trust--”

        “Henry is an idiot!” Victor said forcefully. “I love him more than life itself but that doesn’t change the facts. People don’t change, Justine, not people like _that,_ like _her_! He’s delusional and, honestly, a danger to himself and you can trust me on that assessment because delusional and dangerous is my entire lived experience!”

        “People can change,” Justine said. “Even if they don’t very often.”

        “No. They never do,” Victor emphasized. “Meredith is going to get Henry killed. Or kidnapped or mutilated or...She sounded _off_.”

        “Maybe she was just scared.” Justine shrugged. “I mean, can you imagine living with someone like Lawrence day in and day out. I’d never sleep.”

        Victor glared at his hands and shoved them between his knees prevent himself from picking at the beds. He felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin. “Would you forgive them?” He finally asked.

        “Forgive who?” Justine asked as if she didn’t already know exactly who he was talking about.

        “Your parents.”

        Justine hummed. “No. Never. But I’m also a stone cold bitch. We both know Henry is made of softer stuff than that. Are you worried he’s going to forgive her?”

        “If he lets her back in, she’ll hurt him again,” Victor said with surety. “Whether she’s telling the truth right now or not, she’ll hurt him.” It was hypocritical for him to say, he knew; beyond hypocritical; but he couldn’t find it within himself to care and, thankfully, Justine didn’t point it out. “I hate feeling helpless,” he admitted.

        Justine released a breath Victor hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. “You and me both,” She said reluctantly. “But, as I said before, there’s nothing we can do now but wait. Are you going to be like this when Henry gets home?”

        “No, of course not.” Victor fell against the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. “I’m going to put on my best supportive face, force myself not to say ‘I told you so,’ and comfort him while he sobs himself to sleep.”

        “And if it went well?” Justine asked.

        “It won’t have.”

        “But if it did?”

        Victor wrinkled his nose. “Then I guess...I summon some acting skills, tell him how happy I am for him, and hope to hell that Meredith meant it when she said she’d leave him alone.”

        “Wow,” Justine said, voice flat and unyielding. “A non-bastardous response. That’s different than your usual act. It’s almost like people can change, after all.”

        Victor glowered at her. “What joy do you derive from seeing me suffer?”

        “Consider it payback.”

        “For what?!” Victor cried in outrage. “What have I ever done to you?!”

        Justine raised a deeply unimpressed eyebrow.

        “Yeah, yeah, dumb response,” Victor said. He flopped back to stare at the ceiling again. “I’m going to die.”

        “No, you’re not.”

        “Yes, I am. I’ve decided it. I’m going to drop dead right now. Goodbye cruel world. Tell Ernest he can have my medical textbooks but that he’s not allowed to write in them.”

        Justine picked up her novel again and settled it across her lap. “Well, fine then. Just don’t be too messy about it. I refuse to clean up after you even after you’re dead.” She flipped another page over. “And let me know if you ever want to talk about why you’re really so upset about this.”

        “I’m upset because it’s Henry,” Victor said firmly.

        “And because of something else.”

        Victor grimaced. “Nope. Not talking about that.”

        “Figured,” Justine said. She cocked her head minutely and tapped Victor’s leg. “Garage door just opened.”

        Victor was out of his chair before she could properly finish the sentence, skidding around the corner. He stopped in front of the garage door and took a moment to school his expression into the softest, most caring expression he could while he simultaneously patted down his mused hair. As the door opened, he manufactured an especially kind smile.

        “Hey,” Victor said softly as Henry entered, looking completely exhausted, “How’d it go?”

        Henry didn’t answer him but instead wandered over and basically collapsed on top of him. As he shifted to accommodate the larger, heavier man in his arms, Victor just barely avoiding dropping him. He cradled him close and shot a look to his father, who made a so-so motion. Okay, Victor sighed, not a total disaster then. He stole a brief moment to hang onto Henry, gradually shedding waves of panic as he listened to the other man breathe. He was still alive and nothing had happened and nothing had taken him away. That was all that mattered.

        “Why don’t we go sit down?” Victor whispered to Henry as he reached around to stroke his hair.

        “She’s leaving him,” Henry said dazedly as if he hadn't even heard Victor speak, voice a tangled mess of disbelief, respite, and longing.

        “Oh?” Victor said innocently even as a million thoughts raced ahead of him. Leaving? How on earth was she going to manage that? There was no way Lawrence would let her, or would he? And where was she even going to go? Certainly not here. Victor would murder her if she even stepped a single high heeled foot over the doorstep. He waited while Henry collected himself enough to pull away.

        As expected, the other man had tears in his eyes, though he wasn’t full on sobbing, which was an improvement on what Victor expected. “She said she was going away but that she wouldn’t tell me where. That she won’t be able to see me again.” His voice was choked. “Victor, she sounded…” He shook his head. “I don’t even know. She just kept talking about her sins and how she wanted me to be happy. I don’t know, Victor, I just…” Fresh tears overtook him, rolling over the dried tracks already cascaded over his faint freckles.

        A sweeping relief crashed through Victor. Henry’s mom was leaving Lawrence and, more importantly, leaving Henry. She even sounded remorseful, if in a super weird Catholic way. Victor reached up and whipped Henry’s tears away with a gentle motion. “That’s all good, right?” He said carefully. “I know it’s terrible that she’s leaving but so long as she’s getting away from your father, he won’t be able to hurt her anymore.”

        “But it means I’ll never be able to see her again,” Henry sobbed. “She’s finally leaving him and I’ll never even be able to see her.”

        “And she didn’t say where she was going?” Victor asked curiously.

        “No.” Henry replied miserably. “Just that I won’t go where she’s going.”

        A prickle of genuine worry squirmed its way through his gut. “And she wouldn’t tell you where? Not even, like, a general region? South or north or out of country or something?” He asked again just to be sure.

        Something in his tone must have betrayed him because Henry’s gaze flickered, brow furrowed and eyes wide. “No,” he said, breathe quickening, “Why?”

        “I…” Victor paused. No. No, she wouldn’t. Religious people didn’t do that kind of thing. They were too afraid of hellfire and shit. And she’d already stuck around this long...no way. Victor smiled comfortingly. “Nothing. I’m just surprised is all. I’m, um, I’m really sorry that her goodbye was a real goodbye. I know you were hoping…”

        Henry nodded weakly then shook his head. “I don’t know what I was thinking, trying to convince her to come back here with me, I just…” His eyes dropped to one side as the sadness within them swelled. “It’s just...Victor, I miss my mom.”

        Victor sighed and swept Henry back into his arms. “I know.” He spoke into Henry’s shaking shoulder. Victor paused for a second, debating the wisdom of his next words, but Henry’s tightened grip convinced him. It was almost Christmas. This day couldn’t end in complete misery. “She’s getting out.” Victor lifted his tone. “She’s leaving him, presumably for good. She may be saying goodbye to you today but...who knows if it will be forever? She still has a long life ahead of her. Maybe even a decent life.” With all his combined willpower, Victor slathered true conviction over his words. “Maybe you’ll see her again one day.”

        Henry didn’t speak for a long moment but, pressed against him, Victor could feel some of the tension draining from his lover’s shoulders. “Maybe,” Henry whispered, ninety-five parts defeat, five parts a dull, worn down hope. “Maybe.”

        “Maybe,” Victor repeated back. “And, of course, you’ll always have us.”

        Henry nodded again, this time a bit more surely.

        Victor stepped away but continued to hold Henry’s shoulders. “Can I take you to sit down now? You look five seconds away from passing out on the floor.”

        A ghost of a bitter grin flitted across Henry’s haggard face. “I look that bad, huh?”

        “No,” Victor said too quickly. Henry raised an eyebrow. “Maybe a bit.”

        “Okay,” Henry agreed. “But let me kiss you first.”

        Victor smiled. “Well, look at that,” he teased. “For once, I’m not the needy one.”

        Henry returned the smile, more solid this time around, and kissed him with a bit too much desperation to be truly comfortable. But it was enough to prove to Victor that Henry was really alive and that made it the best kiss he’d ever had.

 

* * *

 

        “Is it true you did ballet?” William asked excitedly.

        “Yes,” Jascha said absently. Dinner was done, and he wanted to go be alone with Ernest. He’d spent the entire day enduring American Christmas with William, Lizzie, and Ernest, which apparently meant listening to carols from the 1950’s and watching strange movies about the joys buying objects for kids or Santa Claus.

        “Can you throw me?” William asked.

        “What?” Now Jascha actually looked at him.

        “Like in ballet!”

        Jascha looked at Ernest, who raised an eyebrow. “Can you?” Ernest asked with a smile.

        “Probably?” Jascha hadn’t practiced lifts since the Manon performance with Cleo. He didn’t get a chance to think it over, though, because right then William made a run at him. Luckily, the kid leapt, and through muscle memory alone Jascha lifted him at the waist and tossed him in the air. The landing was sloppy, mostly because William lacked the core strength and body control of a semi-professional ballerina. The kid giggled, though.

        “Dad said I was too big to throw!” William said gleefully.

        “Your father isn’t a ballerina,” Jascha said with a smile. He glanced to Ernest pleadingly, but his face dissolved to panic when he saw Ernest getting ready to jump. “Ernest, no!” Too late. Jascha caught him well enough, but Ernest was way too heavy to lift above his head, so they stumbled backwards and nearly fell.

        “You were supposed to throw me,” Ernest laughed.

        “You’re probably twice the weight of most ballerinas,” Jascha protested, hugging Ernest tightly. “I can’t throw you. Sorry.”

        “That’s okay,” Ernest smiled as he pulled away. “William, we’re gonna head upstairs. You should go find Lizzie and see if you can trick her into telling you what Santa got you.”

        “I know Santa isn’t real,” William laughed, but he went to go find Lizzie anyways.

        Jascha breathed a sigh of relief as they made it to the quiet sanctuary of Ernest’s locked room, flopping face-down onto the bed.

        “You okay?” Ernest laughed, laying beside him. Jascha really did feel fine, so he rolled onto his side and smiled warmly at Ernest.

        “Lizzie scares me,” Jascha said lightly. “And William can talk for three hours straight about nothing. It’s impressive.”

        “He isn’t talking about nothing, he’s talking about Ancient Greece.” Ernest kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You just don’t know what any of it means, so it sounds like nothing.”

        “Yes,” Jascha admitted, pulling Ernest into a real kiss. “I just wanted to be with you,” he said quietly. “We spent a long time with other people today.”

        “I know,” Ernest smiled against his lips. Jascha’s breath hitched slightly as he felt Ernest’s fingertips slide under his shirt, resting against the soft skin of his side. It had been too long since he’d been touched like that, and the effect was dizzying. He kissed him again, hunger mixing into the tenderness. Ernest shifted so he was on his back, tangling his fingers in Jascha’s hair and placing heated kisses against his neck.

        Jascha gave Ernest room as they both freed themselves from their shirts. Jascha ran his hands adoringly down Ernest’s sides, savoring the feeling of his toned muscles under his fingers. It was his first time touching Ernest; really touching him; with his own hands. Everything felt clearer and realer than it had before, and his fingers glided over his soft skin so much easier without the roughness of his old hands. He desperately wanted to feel all of Ernest with his own hands. Luckily, Ernest seemed to feel the same way. He was already messing with his belt, pulling it off gracelessly along with the rest of his clothes. The minute he was free of them, Jascha stroked the smooth insides of his thighs, drunk on the heat of Ernest’s body beneath his touch.

        “Jascha,” Ernest moaned as he reached his groin, tracing his fingers gently along the length of Ernest’s fully erect cock. “Kiss me,” he whispered.

        “Mhm,” Jascha hummed, peeling his attention away from his hands in order to kiss Ernest hard on the mouth. He had to catch his breath as Ernest spread his legs apart, trapping Jascha’s hips between his muscular thighs.

        “We should do it,” Ernest panted.

        “Do what?” Jascha’s mind went numb as he let Ernest help him out of his pants. He grit his teeth to stifle a moan as he felt Ernest move against his erection. He hadn’t really been in a position to jerk off for the past week, and he was certainly feeling the full effect of that deprivation now. It took self control not to touch himself.

        “You should fuck me,” Ernest whispered against his ear, bold with arousal.

        “You mean…” Jascha struggled with words.

        “Yes,” Ernest breathed. He turned slightly and reached for the bedside table, opening up a drawer. He pulled a bottle of lube from it, pressing it into Jascha’s hand. “Please,” Ernest mouthed, gaze soft and cheeks flushed.

        Jascha bit the inside of his lip as Ernest slid a pillow under his hips. “How does this work?” He asked, adding a tinge of embarrassment to his already flushed cheeks.

        “I don’t know,” Ernest said hazily, eyes like velvet. “Use a lot of lube. On both of us. Start with your fingers.” Ernest sat up and kissed Jascha on the cheek. “It’ll be fine.”

        “What if it hurts you?” Jascha said quietly as Ernest kissed his neck.

        “I’ll tell you if it does,” Ernest lay back down, pulling Jascha with him. “I don’t think it will.”

        Jascha clenched his jaw and coated his fingers with a generous layer of lube, watching Ernest’s face carefully. He wanted to try this, Jascha repeated to himself. He wasn’t going to hurt Ernest, because he’d promised to tell him if anything felt bad. Ernest gasped as he slid his index finger inside him, and Jascha promptly pulled it out.

        “I’m sorry,” Jascha said, quickly returning to Ernest’s side. “Are you okay? Did it hurt?” Jascha was rapidly switching from nervous excitement to nervous panic.

        “Jascha, it was fine. Just different.” Ernest held his face. Jascha forced himself to breathe. “We don’t need to do this now,” Ernest said gently as he kissed him.

        “No, it’s okay,” Jascha sighed. “I’m just really scared of hurting you.” He rested his forehead against Ernest’s, happy to be held and kissed.

        “Do you want to try it the other way around first?” Ernest said after Jascha finally relaxed.

        “Didn’t you want me to, you know...” Jascha blushed.

        “I do.” Ernest smiled with sensuous curiosity in his dark eyes. “But it would be hot either way, and that way you’d know for sure that it wouldn’t hurt me.”

        “Okay.” Jascha nodded, and they switched places. Jascha felt infinitely better knowing that Ernest would be in charge of figuring out what to do, and as such his arousal returned quickly as Ernest kissed his stomach and massaged his inner thighs. He took a sharp breath as Ernest’s fingers teased his erection with light touches, watching carefully as Ernest lubed up his fingers. He met his gaze as he looked up. Ernest looked relaxed, and his eyes were sweet and dark against his flushed, freckled cheeks.

        “Let me know if anything feels wrong.” Ernest kissed him again. Jascha nodded, unable to speak as Ernest used his un-lubed hand to keep stroking his cock. He inhaled sharply as he felt Ernest’s finger penetrate him, but he was right; it didn’t hurt. “Is it okay?” Ernest asked, glancing back to him. Jascha nodded again, already feeling overstimulated by the combination of Ernest fingering him while also jerking him off.

        One finger hadn’t been uncomfortable at all after the initial weirdness of the sensation, but two was more intense. Still not painful; Ernest’s movements were slow and gentle. He was a fast learner, though, so he caught onto which movements worked better even before Jascha did. Ernest kissed his neck and Jascha twisted his fingers into his hair, grinding his teeth to keep quiet. Unlike with the blowjob, this aroused something deeper in his body, and the pleasure ached and he craved more.

        “Do you want me to-” Ernest said against his neck.

        “Yes,” Jascha panted, cutting him off. He missed his lips as Ernest sat up, but it was worth it to see Ernest’s face. His expression was one of desire and complete adoration, and it inspired utter trust on Jascha’s part. Ernest bit his lip as he applied lube to his own cock, which practically throbbed with arousal. He spread his legs a little farther apart, making room for Ernest’s hips. He felt his fingers again, helping to relax him, and then something else. The two of them gasped, and Jascha grabbed Ernest’s hand.

        “Are you okay?” Ernest said in a hoarse whisper. Jascha nodded.

        “I just want to hold your hand,” Jascha breathed. “Is- are you…?”

        “Just the head.” Ernest bit his lip again, and lifted Jascha’s hand to his face, kissing his palm. He braced his weight on his other arm, grinding his hips gently. A sigh escaped Jascha’s lips as he felt Ernest’s tentative movements grow deeper and more confident. Ernest gasped and leaned forward as he thrust with his full length for the first time. Jascha moaned, spreading his legs still farther so that he could feel Ernest deeper inside him.

        Jascha stroked Ernest’s face, feeling high on the closeness this sex granted them. He traced Ernest’s brow and lips. He looked gorgeous in his pleasure, and as Jascha touched his lips Ernest closed his eyes and kissed his hand before bending down and kissing his lips hungrily. Ernest moaned against his mouth, sending shocks of arousal through Jascha’s body and bringing him within inches of an orgasm. He tangled one hand in Ernest’s curls, massaging his back with the other and holding him close against him. As Ernest thrust harder, Jascha leaned his head back against the pillow. He felt, to his surprise, the deep, aching feeling in his stomach blossom into an unbearably intense orgasm, and he gripped Ernest desperately as it tore through him.

        “Ernest,” he moaned, digging his fingers into his back. Ernest was breathing hard as they kissed, and Jascha clung to him. He stroked Ernest’s cheek with one hand, watching as his features melted into ecstasy. He gasped, and Jascha could feel the throbbing of his orgasm inside him. They both relaxed as Ernest’s movements grew slow and heavy.

        Ernest pulled out and lay on top of him as they caught their breath. They both smiled as he covered Jascha’s face and neck in gentle kisses. Jascha laughed quietly, wrapping his arms loosely around Ernest’s neck and pressing his face into his hair.

        “I love you,” Ernest whispered slowly, kissing his cheek. “Did it hurt?”

        “No,” Jascha said quietly. “I love you, too.” Jascha smiled. He was vaguely aware that the longer they stayed on the bed, the greater the mess they were making on the sheets. As great as it felt, this was probably the messiest sex they’d had. “We need to shower,” Jascha said gently.

        “Yeah,” Ernest laughed. “God, the last time I got this much cum on the sheets I was thirteen,” he said, blushing.

        “Please tell me you didn’t have sex when you were thirteen,” Jascha said as Ernest sat up.

        “No way,” Ernest grimaced. “No, I had a...masturbation mishap. It was the first time I orgasmed, and no one warned me it would be messy.” He smiled. “C’mon, shower time.” Ernest headed towards the bathroom. It took Jascha a second to remember how his legs worked, but he managed to follow him eventually.

        By the time he got there the shower was already running, and he climbed in with Ernest.

        “Did it feel good?” Jascha asked as they cleaned themselves off.

        “Yeah,” Ernest said dreamily. “It felt really good. You?”

        “Mhm.” Jascha nodded, rinsing the conditioner out of his hair. “It was very intense, but in a good way. The orgasm felt different.”

        Ernest smirked at him coyly. “Then I’ll have something to look forward to.”

        “You do.” Jascha kissed him on the forehead. “I think I’ll be able to be on top next time.”

        “Cool.” Ernest smiled, rinsing off the last of the soap from both of them before shutting off the water.

        They both dried off before returning to the business of stripping the bed. Jascha sat awkwardly on the bare mattress as Ernest got dressed and made the dangerous journey to the second floor for clean sheets. Jascha was content and warm, wrapped in his Juilliard sweater and his favorite pajama pants. He was feeling a little more vulnerable now that Ernest was gone. He could no longer claim himself to be a virgin by anyone’s metric, and that was a little bit scarier of a realization than he’d expected. He just wanted Ernest to come back and hold him.

        He jumped to his feet as Ernest came back, hugging him tightly. Ernest reached up and stroked his hair. “You good?” He asked gently.

        “Mhm.” Jascha nodded, letting go of Ernest so he could make the bed. “Just kind of emotional,” he said quietly, helping to pull the fresh sheets over the bed.

        “Emotional?” Ernest looked at him with loving concern as he threw the quilt and pillows back on the bed.

        “Mhm.” Jascha nodded again as he climbed under the blankets. He was happy when Ernest joined him and went back to stroking his still-damp hair. “I’m not a virgin anymore.”

        “You weren’t a virgin before,” Ernest said gently.

        “But now I’m really not a virgin,” Jascha said as he wrapped his arms tightly around Ernest’s chest, burying his face in his shoulder.

        “Is that okay?” Ernest asked quietly,rubbing soft circles into Jascha’s shoulders.

        “Yeah.” Jascha pulled away and kissed him. “I’m not upset. I just feel funny,” he whispered. He sort of felt like crying, but not because he was sad. He wanted to cry because it was what you did when you were overwhelmed with a feeling, and he felt overwhelmed by how happy he was with Ernest. The sex was great, but he was what made it that way. “I just love you a lot,” Jascha finally said, pulling Ernest against his chest and burying his face in his curls.

        “I love you too,” Ernest said, wrapping his arms around Jascha and relaxing against him. “You do know you’re the most beautiful man alive, right?” He asked with a laugh. “I don’t know if I’ve told you that, or if anyone else has, but it’s kind of amazing. You’re amazing.”

        Jascha blushed, and kissed Ernest’s forehead. “No,” he said gently. “I’m not the most beautiful man. Because you’re here, and you have cute freckles and fluffy curls. And gorgeous, athletic thighs.”

        “Shut up,” Ernest laughed, his dark eyes gleaming as his cheeks tinged pink. Jascha kissed the bridge of his nose.

        “I’m sorry, but you’re perfect,” Jascha smiled sleepily. He let himself be kissed again.

        “You are, too,” Ernest said quietly as he snuggled against Jascha’s sweater. Jascha ran his fingers through his curls, warmth and joy radiating through him like sunlight. He closed his eyes, pressing his lips against Ernest’s forehead.

        “We’re perfect,” Jascha mumbled into his hair. He sighed happily as Ernest took his hand and kissed his fingers. There was nothing better than being able to hold Ernest’s hand in his own; he felt like he’d been living with gloves on during that month with another person’s hands, and he was only touching Ernest for the first time. And the feeling was divine.


	48. Christmas Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry celebrates Christmas. Victor feeds his leeches. Jascha plays violin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! And now for something totally sweet! Thanks for reading and we always love comments and kudos!!!
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter are: brief mentions of crisis

        “Uncle Henry. Victor. Stop cuddling! It’s Christmas!” William practically tore through Victor and Henry’s room like a tornado before moving to harass the next sleeping couple.

        “It’s like five in the morning,” Victor groaned, not realizing the child had already left.

        “Eh, more like 7:30.” Henry tried to haul himself out of the bed.

        “Just ten more minutes,” Victor whined, trying to get a hold on Henry’s waist.

        “My dearest, I think William might actually burst into flames if we leave him waiting any longer.” Henry smiled as he watched Victor dramatically flop out of bed. His hair was a wreck and his seasonally-appropriate pajamas were rumpled, but it was a rather endearing look on him.

        They staggered their way downstairs and beheld the stack of presents underneath the tree. Alphonse was sitting in his fluffy armchair and Justine and Elizabeth were squished together on the couch. They could hear William’s feet pattering around upstairs trying to rouse Jascha and Ernest. In no less than ten minutes the two were downstairs and Jascha was in a shirt and a tie.

        “Why. The hell. Are you dressed like that?” Lizzie asked him.

        “Do people not normally have to dress nice for Christmas?” Jascha asked flicking his eyes to Ernest and back to the rest of the family. They were all in pajamas or some vein of comfy house clothes.

        “Not usually, my man,” Ernest said, leaning into his shoulder. “But you look cute.”

        “Presents! Presents! Presents!” William raced down the stairs after them. “Oh, and spending time with my family too.”

        Alphonse smiled as William took his place by the base of the tree. Henry sat in the other chair and Victor sat at his feet. “Will you do the honors?” Alphonse asked William.

        It barely took him five minutes to distribute all of the presents to the family. He bopped around like a bubbly little fairy with candy colored boxes until he finally settled, as much as he was able, back at the base of the tree. Then there was chaos.

        Henry was generally used to it at this point. It wasn’t like back with his family where they would sit in a row and wait their turn carefully unpeeling the white and gold wrapping paper so they could save it for later. No, this was a massacre and Henry loved every primal second of it.

        He tended to watch other people before he opened his own. William was delighted with books and horrible movies galore as he snuggled close to a Trojan bear that Elizabeth gave him. Jascha leaned against Ernest as he wrapped a cashmere scarf around his neck and wound an ornate music box that chimed Swan Lake. Elizabeth and Justine compared their new knives and Alphonse read through a piece of paper, his poetry, no doubt. Henry blushed and pressed his knee into Victor’s shoulder.

        “Are you alright?” He asked, turning to face him. “You haven’t touched anything yet.”

        “I’m good,” Henry said with a cheery smile. “I just like people watching.” He ripped open the edge of the box and rifled through its contents: Coupons for the spa and about a metric ton of stuff to help with muscle tension as well an aromatherapy kit.

        “Self care,” Ernest quipped as he met Henry’s eyes. “You should try it sometime.”

        Henry laughed. “Thanks, I’ll try my best.” He leaned down to get the folder with Victor’s name written across it.

        “Not yet,” he gently grabbed Henry’s wrist. “Do mine last?”

        “Sure.” Henry pressed the quickest kiss to Victor’s hair. Everyone was so engrossed in their own presents that they didn’t notice. He unwrapped Lizzie’s present and threw the paper like a basketball into the black trash bag. Rather, he tried to, but he missed because he was but a gay poet, as the keychain described.

        “Lizzie,” Henry heard Ernest yell from across the room. “You can’t just plaster Jascha’s face across every model in Vogue.”

        “Sure I can, and what does it matter? He’s prettier than all of them anyway.” She smirked and held a mug that said ‘World’s Okayest Sister’ in her hands, clearly the work of Victor.

        Ernest and Jascha had then devolved into gushing over the portraits that William had painted for them. Henry must admit that he looked strikingly good in Greek armor. Even Victor was painted at Daedalus. He wandered over to Will and started to beam over the accuracy of the anatomy and the detail of the shading.

        Henry opened another present. “You were in Henry V?” He yelled over to Jascha. “This is you?”

        Jascha put down the copy of the Barenreiter Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto Henry bought him to focus on the DVD. “Yeah,” he blushed. “I had to wear a wig.”

        “We’ll have to marathon Jascha’s shows,” Ernest said as he brandished Manon.

        “We absolutely cannot,” Jascha insisted, trying to get Ernest to lower his hand.

        “Oh, we are so going to,” Ernest argued as he placed the recording gently on the floor. 

        “Please not in front of William.”

        “It’s just ballet. What’s the worst that could possibly happen?” Justine asked as she pinned her new lesbian buttons to her jean jacket.

        Henry was distracted when he heard Ernest yell his name, once again. “Tickets to Chicago Fire?” He asked, practically bouncing in his seat. “You’re the best!”

        “What’s that?” Victor whispered in his ear. He was admiring the plague masque that Ernest and Jascha got him and reading Ernest’s detailed instructions about how to give good back massages.

        “The soccer team in Chicago,” Henry explained. “I thought it would be fun.”

        “I’m sure he’ll have a great time.” Victor smiled and leaned against Henry’s knee.

        “Can I open yours now?” Henry asked.

        “Please do.”

        Henry held in his hands a portrait of himself rendered in watercolors. He lightly traced his fingers over the lines of his cheek and neck. Sometimes, the ink would bleed into the pigment or the linart wasn’t completely steady, but it still nearly moved Henry to tears. The glowing amber of his eyes seemed the shine past the paper.

        “I didn’t know you knew _Song of Myself,”_ Henry said as he let his fingers glide over the words. _Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,/To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me./ It is not chaos or death—it is form, union, plan—it is eternal life—it is Happiness._

        “It’s important to you, so I read it,” Victor tried to shrug as if it were a casual thing.

        “It’s wonderful.” Henry leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I love you.”

        “I love you too.” Victor had a kinda glowing dreamy look filtering through his eyes. “And I love medieval medicine. I want to try bloodletting--”

        “No.”

        “But Henry--”

        “Absolutely not.” Henry tried to keep a serious face, but ended up smiling instead.

        “All I need are some leeches and then I’ll--”

        “No one in their right mind should give you leeches.” Henry smiled and ruffled Victor’s hair. He pouted so sweetly and Henry wanted to scoop him up in his arms and never let him go again.

        “I bet dad would give me leeches.” Victor smirked and crawled up to sit on the arm of the chair next to Henry.

        No one seemed to notice that Alphonse had left the room until he came back down the stairs carrying seven gifts of various sizes. He placed them gently on the coffee table. One of them made a squeaking noise. All of the children grew silent as they gathered around the table.

        “First, for William,” Alphonse said as he held out an envelope.

        William’s eyes scanned over the words. “Thessaloniki,” he said. “You’re going to take me to Thessaloniki!” He shot up and enveloped his dad in a hug. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you so much!”

        “You can take whoever you want with you.” Alphonse smiled into his son’s hair.

        “Even Isabella?”

        “Even Isabella.”

        William got up and bounced around the room. “She’s going to get to meet all of you and she’s going to love you so much and she’s especially going to like you, Henry, because you both are massive nerds who like weird books.”

        “ _You’re_ a massive nerd who likes weird books,” Henry retorted playfully.

        “Speaking of bookish nerds,” Alphonse said, turning to Henry. He handed him a book wrapped in green and gold and suddenly, Henry felt intensely bad about acting like a barbarian, so he carefully removed the wrapping paper. He ran his thumb over the green leather and the gold lettering. _Leaves of Grass._

        “This isn’t from 1855, right?” Henry said, a nervous laugh rising in his voice. “You couldn’t possibly justify spending that much money on me, right?” Alphonse gave an encouraging nod of his head and Henry actually cried. He brushed the tears from his cheeks before they could damage his book. This was it; his entire academic life laid out before him bound in emerald leather. “I...thank you so much,”

        “Of course, Henry, you’re part of our family,” Alphonse said warmly.

        Justine and Elizabeth were considerably less dramatic, as far as these types of things tend to go.Elizabeth gushed over a new, expensive set of shimmery makeup and a dress that looked straight from Byzantium. Justine clutched an axe and a book of child developmental psych.

        “Please, please, for the love of my goodwill,” Alphonse said. “Do not ever let it back into this house or into Victor’s hands.”

        “Yeah, yeah, I think I can manage that,” Justine said, he eyes as wide a saucers.

        “Victor, you’re going to have to be careful,” Alphonse said, as he gently pushed a round object towards his oldest son. With surgical accuracy, he peeled away the paper.

        “Leeches!” Victor said as he turned towards Henry. “I told you my dad would get me leeches!”

        “Dear lord,” Henry muttered.

        “No attaching them to anyone other than yourself,” Alphonse said in a mock show of sterness.

        “Please don’t attach them to yourself either,” Henry tried to reason. 

        “Henry, my dear, I need to feed my leech babies somehow,” Victor said.

        “Yeah, Uncle Henry, let Victor feed his leech babies,” William mocked.

        Alphonse smiled at his family bickering before turning to Ernest and Jascha. “I know we haven’t known you for very long, Jascha, but I got the sense that you’ve been missing something.” Alphonse pushed the long, rectangular present towards him. Jascha unwrapped it as if it were holy material.

        “A violin,” he said before he burst into tears. Ernest moved to hold his shaking shoulders. “Thank you...I...thank you so much. I can’t...I don’t know how…” Alphonse placed a light hand on his shoulder. “What’s its name? How do I refer to it?”

        “Well, It’s from the Thir School in Vienna. From about 1760, I think. You would have to check the card inside to be sure.” Alphonse cocked his head. “I wish I could have know your sound preferences before I started renting it, but if it’s really terrible I’m sure I could make some arrangements and switch it out, at least until you can get your instrument back.”

        “I do miss Kroshka,” Jascha whispered as he plucked the A string. To Henry, it sounded warm and rich; like dark honey and chocolate. “How could I ever repay you?” Jascha asked, looking up at Alphonse.

        “You don’t need to. You’re one of us now.” Alphonse smiled before he turned to Ernest. “You need to be careful too.” Another mewl came from the last remaining present.

        “Dad, you know--” Ernest started.

        “I do.” Alphonse smiled wider.

        “I hadn’t told anyone--”

        “Yes, but you are very easy to read.”

        Ernest closed his eyes as he took off the last of the wrapping paper. A small ball of fluff pressed itself up against the bars of the crate. “Dad...” Ernest said as he drew into a hug. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

        “She’s a black siberian kitten. Someone left her at the shelter a couple weeks ago and I made...arrangements. How anyone could leave a cat like _that_ behind, is completely beyond me,” Alphonse said, as Ernest struggled to open the crate in his excitement. He cradled the cat in his hands. She fit neatly against his palm and her ears were already as big as a bat’s.

        “What are you going to name her?” William asked as he crowded around to try and pet her.

        “I..uh...I don’t know yet. I’ll have to ask around,” Ernest said, inviting his family for suggestions.

        “It’s going to be big. Name it Mikhail,” Jascha said.

        “Jascha,” Ernest laughed. “It’s a girl.”

        “Mishka?”

        “I know that’s just a girly name for Mikhail.”

        “Mishen’ka?”

        “I know your tricks.” Ernest smirked and nudged Jascha’s shoulder. “Anyone else have any good ideas?”

        “Niekinis?” Henry offered. “It’s void in Lithuanian. Mazai is little. Or you could always go Greek. Andromache is really pretty.”

        “That’s really sad,” William argued. “Ernest needs something happy. What about Athena or Artemis or Hera?”

        “Those are happier?” Henry asked.

        “Well, no. But they’re badasses,” William said with a shrug.

        “William, language,” Alphonse said. “I do rather like Odette from Swan Lake.” Henry watched as Ernest turned over the possibilities in his head.

        “Kiska,” Victor offered. “If I remember my Russian classes it means--”

        “Pussy, yes.” Ernest cut him off. Lizzie and Justine snickered. “You so did not learn that in class. In any case.” He sighed dramatically. “I think we should watch a certain someone dance now,” he said, tucking the kitten against his chest.

        Everyone crowded onto the couch, even Alphonse. Henry could feel the abject terror radiating off of Jascha. He was thoroughly squished between Ernest’s hips and William’s elbows. The music started playing and Jascha and his friend, Cleo, took to the stage. If Henry remembered correctly, _Manon_ was a tragedy. A sexy, sexy tragedy. Henry felt himself blush as he watched Jascha dance the passionate pas de deux. He really did look like his old self.

        It opened with Jascha pressing his face flush against Cleo’s chest and caressing her body. Henry marveled at the tone in Jascha’s legs and ass. He blushed harder. Everyone gasped as Jascha performed the first throw. It was inhuman. Jascha was clearly an angel or something.

        He moved Cleo as if she were a ragdoll. Henry watched as everyone who was into men gawked at the screen. Jascha hid his face both in his hands and into Ernest’s shoulder. During one lift, Jascha basically held Cleo as she curled in a ball above his head and he kept her on his shoulders as if it were nothing at all. Then Cleo, or rather Manon, died and Henry really, truly thought he was going to cry. Jascha’s expressions were so genuine and so real. It almost made him forget that the rest of it was pretty pornographic.

 

* * *

 

        “That was the worst performance I’ve ever seen,” Victor insisted quietly.

        “Aw,” Elizabeth cooed at him, “Upset because you’re horny, aren’t you?”

        “No.” Victor snapped, blushing hard and avoiding eye contact. “It just wasn’t that good. It was weird and over dramatic and, like, way too long. Who sits through that kind of thing?”

        “Apparently you,” Liz said as she reached across the table to rustle his hair. “I’m proud, honestly. You didn’t even run away to jerk one like you did when I tried to show you that weird body horror porno when you were sixteen.”

        Victor shuttered. “That was so uncomfortable. What even prompted that?”

        “Don’t know,” Liz said in a way which meant she definitely knew. “I think you asked me about some sex position and I didn’t know how else to explain it.”

        “So you decided to traumatize me?”

        “Like I said, you were the one who asked.” Liz waved him off lazily. “Traumatized me with the knowledge that my brother is into-”

        Victor launched himself forward across the coffee table and slammed his hands over Liz’s mouth as Henry walked back into the room. He smiled weakly as Henry looked back and forth between him and Lizzie.

        “Hey, sunshine,” Victor said, sickeningly sweet. “How’s the cat?”

        “Settling in. Ernest absolutely adores her,” Henry said warily. “What are you two--”

        He was cut off as Lizzie suddenly bit Victor’s hand causing him to yank away. “You bitch! Why did you-”

        “Hey Henry.” Liz plowed over him with a devilish smile plastered across her face. “Did you know that Victor’s into-”

        Victor launched himself across the table and tackled Liz to the ground, sparking a brief but passionate scuffle, which he absolutely would have won if he didn’t have the muscle mass of a crack addicted lab rat.

        “Uncle!” Victor cried as Liz wretched his arm behind his back and pinned him to the ground with a knee. “Shit, Liz-- I said uncle! Henry, help!”

        He craned his neck up to see Henry stifling a giggle behind one hand. “Traitor!”

        “Say sorry.” Liz sang above him while grinding her knee deeper into his back.

        “For what?! You’re the one who bit me!” Victor squirmed, quickly realizing that there was no way out of this hold unless he actually wanted to dislocate his shoulder. He considered it for a brief second. “I’m sorry.”

        “Good boy,” Liz said mockingly. She released his arm and smirked as Victor flew to hide behind Henry’s. He glared out at her from under Henry’s arm as Liz smiled.

        “C’mon.” Victor tugged on Henry’s hand. “Let’s go, I don’t know, anywhere but here.”

        “Sure.” Henry agreed bemusedly and Victor wasted no time pulling him from the room. Once he was positive they were far enough from Liz to be safe, he stopped and faced Henry. “Can I kiss you?” He asked.

        “Of course.” Henry breathed. He kindly bent so that Victor didn’t have to balance on tip-toe to reach him and offered him a gentle kiss, which Victor deepened with a hand tangled in the root of Henry’s soft hair and their hips pressed flush together. He tasted like sugar cookies and radiance. Victor paused as Henry laughed softly against his lips. “Looks like I wasn’t the only one who enjoyed Jascha’s performance,” he said coyly.

        “Shut up.” Victor wrinkled his nose. “Maybe I enjoyed it a little.”

        Henry hummed. “He’s very good at ballet.”

        “Yup.” Victor nodded. “Unfortunately, he’s taken though which means you’re stuck with little ol’ me.”

        Henry smiled and kissed him again; this time on the forehead. “Lucky me.”

        Victor felt his heart swell and his smile soften. “Not nearly as lucky as me,” he replied. He felt something sharp stick into his thigh. “Are you really going to carry around that book all day?” He asked.

        Henry tightened his grip on _Leaves of Grass_ protectively. “It’s an original edition,” he argued. “I’m never going to put it down.”

        “Amazing display of anxiety, dear,” Victor said, “but it’s Christmas. You really think it’s going to survive the mayhem?”

        Henry paled minutely. “I’m- I’m going to put it in our room. Under the bed. In a shoebox.”

        “We’ll get a safe or something for it later, if you’d like,” Victor assured him while trying to figure out the best way to gently tell Henry that under the bed is where he kept his collection of heart calcifications. It was fine, he reasoned. He probably wouldn’t find them.

        Victor gave Henry one last kiss before releasing him to race off towards the bedroom.

        He hesitated in the hall for a moment, trying to calm his body down from being completely flush to Henry before the intoxicating smells of his father’s cooking drew him into the kitchen. Without making eye contact with the older man, Victor snagged the bottle of wine from the corner of the counter and began to pour himself a glass.

        “Victor.” His dad’s voice echoed from behind him, partially warning, partially amused.

        “Christmas,” Victor reminded him as he summoned a confident charm across his face. “That means I get to do whatever I want. No rules today.”

        “Within reason,” His dad corrected. “Your mother’s words were ‘anything you want within reason.’”

        Victor held the flower patterned glass closer to himself and grinned pleadingly.

        His dad sighed. “Which I suppose one glass of wine is. But only one.”

        “Hell yeah!” Victor took a deep drink of the dark red wine and immediately fell into a coughing fit, which forced him to double over. He heard his father chuckling as he crossed around the counter to rub at Victor’s back.

        “Maybe start with smaller sips?” His dad suggested lightly.

        “The one day out of the year I’m legally allowed to drink and the wine tries to kill me.” Victor said miserably. “The world is a cruel and dark place, Dad.”

        “Maybe so.” His dad said as he returned to carving the honestly massive section of meat in front of him. “But at least we have ham to make up for it. Go grab the sauerkraut for me?”

        “Gross.” Victor complained. He went to retrieve it from the fridge, only to be stopped short by his father’s hand on his wrist. His dad pulled him back and turned his arm over. “Victor…” he said slowly as he turned up Victor’s sleeve. “Please, please tell me you don’t have the leeches stuck to your skin.”

        “They’re my children and they need to eat!”

        “Which is why I bought that piece of liver from the butcher,” His father said, looking sick as he examined Victor’s leech covered inner arm.

        “They deserve a Christmas dinner too,” Victor said firmly.

        “Just,” his dad closed his eyes, visceral regret etched over every feature, “Take them off for dinner.”

        “Fine,” Victor sighed dramatically. He lifted his arm up to examine the leeches. “I’m sorry, your grandpa says you have to go back in your jar for now. I’ll feed you again later,” he whispered.

        The leeches, unsurprisingly, did not respond.

        “Okay.” Henry bustled into the kitchen, still slightly flustered, “I hid the book and oh holy hell you’re covered in leeches.” Henry grimaced painfully. “Why?”

        “I’m feeding them.”

        “Wait, were they on when you kissed me? Oh god, did you touch me with your leech covered arm? Victor?!”

        “I don’t know why you’re both so freaked out,” Victor grumbled as he carefully pried Aelius Galenus from his tender flesh. “They’re just little babies. Hell, Henry, they’re practically your children too!”

        Henry leaned away as Victor shoved Galenus in his face. His cheeks were at least three different shades of green. “I think I want a divorce.”

        “Too late!” Victor said cheerfully. “The leeches and I are a package set!”

        “Okay, just-- Get them out of my kitchen,” His father said firmly, ushering Victor and Henry into the hall. “Go balance your humors elsewhere.”

        Victor frowned. “Damn, I didn’t even get to finish my wine before I was banished. Henry, can you go get it for me?” Victor tried to step closer only to have Henry move away with an apologetic smile.

        “Sorry,” Henry said, “I’m afraid it’s me or the leeches.”

        “Unusual punishment!” Victor announced. “Galenus, Aristotle, Hippocrates, I’m sorry to disappoint you like this but it has come to my attention that your father doesn’t love you. I know, I know, I’m torn up about it too. We’ll just have to persist alone, I suppose.” He held the back of his hand to his head. “Though I can’t help but say that my heart may indeed be broken beyond repair.”

        Henry shook his head with a pale yet fond smile. “Take off the leeches and I’ll cuddle with you till dinner.”

        “Done.”

        They had to take a quick detour to get properly dressed for the main meal, an affair which mainly consisted of Victor forcing himself to recall how to properly make an eldredge knot to secure Henry’s necktie while the other attempted to scrounge Victor’s suit out from behind the mess of excess lab equipment and t-shirts that was his closet.

        About half an hour later, they were able to make their way down to the living room. Finally tucked against Henry’s side on the couch, Victor contented himself with (slowly) sipping his wine while watching his family bustle to and fro. It was highly entertaining to observe Jascha walk around with Ernest practically hanging off of his arm, the later blabbering on and on about his ballet performance and begging him to play the new violin while the new kitten swirled around their legs.

        Curled up in a blanket before a roaring fire, Liz and Justine alternating between bickering and talking lovingly about Christmas’ past and memories. The scene would have been sweeter, of course, if Lizzie didn’t look over every couple of minutes to make lewd gestures at Victor while Henry was preoccupied with his new books but, c’est la vie. Then, naturally, there was William who, per his usual Christmas routine, flew like a firecracker around the house, bouncingbetween his presents and whoever was best available to indulge him the moment he decided he needed to be entertained. At some point, he trapped Victor into reading at least twenty pages of Sappho to him while he attempted to dramatically act them out, a difficult feat considering most of the poems were about staring at pretty girls and longing.

        The production gained a bit more traction after Elizabeth snatched the opportunity to ‘add a bit of modern commentary’ and began to coach William through acting out her greatest childhood hits, featuring such stories as _Justine is Secretly James Deans’ Daughter: A Twenty Part Conspiracy_ _Theory, Arson Attempts, Anarchy, and Other Fun Ways to Get Kicked Out of an All Girls Sleepaway Camp, The Heathers Had Nothing on Me,_ and the oh so classic _How to Get Away with Literally Anything by Acting Like Hot Shit._ The mini plays very quickly became an affair, with Justine taking up the part of Liz’s take-no-shit partner in crime while Ernest, Victor, and Henry reprised their roles as clueless and, in Victor’s case, ‘greasy pre-pubescent’ middle schoolers. William insisted on taking the part of their father and spent much of the act stalking around, pretending to pull out his hair while spewing random legal terms and telling Victor to behave. Jascha, for his part, elected to watch quietly from the couch, petting the heavily purring cat snuggled into his lap.

        By the time dinner was served, Liz had gotten up to her college years and was making quick work describing all the male professors she’d publically humiliated and destroyed in her first semester.

        “Long story short,” she smirked at a laughing William as she took her seat at the table, “Professor My-Imported-Silk-Scarf-Makes-Me-An-Artist got fired for gross incompetence and yours truly received a standing ovation from the whole department _and_ a personal letter of gratitude from the dean of students for my selfless deeds.”

        “Didn’t you get kicked out of that class?” Victor interjected cheekily. “I think I remember you did because Dad made you use all of your clothing budget to pay for the summer school class.”

        “Oh yeah,” Ernest added with a small smirk, “you spent that entire season one fashion cycle behind.”

        Liz’s eye twitched slightly as she smiled. “I wasn’t that out of style,” she said dismissively as she helped herself to a serving of ham.

        “Of course you weren’t,” Victor said with false cheer, emboldened by the fact that Henry was holding his hand beneath the table cloth, by the warmth and realness of it all. He turned to Ernest and smiled pityingly. Without even thinking about it, all his fashion knowledge, ingrained into muscle memory by their father’s obsession with clothing, came rushing back. “Wasn’t it amazing that maroon was the new black two falls in a row?”

        “And that tattoo chokers stayed in vogue.” Ernest added casually as he grinned into his wine. Beside him, Jascha looked lost but laughed along when Victor and Ernest’s resolve finally broke down into giggles.

        “None of you deserve me.” Liz pouted as Justine patted her shoulder comfortingly. “I’m disowning you all. Get out of my house.”

        “Your house?” William teased.

        “Yes, _my_ house. I’m the oldest, so I get automatic inheritance.”

        “Now wait a minute,” their dad began to protest.

        “I thought it would be passed down to William since he’s the dependent of the family.” Justine swirled her glass as she frowned.

        “Traditionally, eldest sons get inheritance,” Henry mused aloud, “and since the Frankensteins are a very old family, wouldn’t Victor get the house?”

        “No way!” Liz and Ernest declared in unison as Victor grinned smugly.

        He rubbed Henry’s knuckles beneath the table and scooted closer to him. “Sorry, kids,” he said, voice dripping with false sympathy, “you heard Henry. I’m the _eldest son._ All you see before you is my kingdom.” He gazed up at Henry and made a brief show of rubbing his chin. “What do you think, love? Should we put your study in William or Ernest’s bedroom?”

        “Hey!” William yelled. “You can’t take my room!”

        Henry smiled and squeezed Victor’s hand. “I’m not sure.” He mimicked deep thought. “We could combine Liz and William’s room into a duel lab space/study then use Ernest’s room as a nursery.”

        “Oh, that would be absolutely _perfect,_ ” Victor sang, heart skipping in delight at the idea of living with Henry as his partner, of having a kid’s room in their house, _their_ kid’s room.

        “Hold on.” His dad tried to cut in again. “We’re not-”

        “Yeah, Uncle Henry, hold on,” William interrupted. “We haven’t even asked Uncle Jascha for his opinion yet. Uncle Jascha, who do you think should get the house?”

        Jascha shrank back in his chair as the full intensity of Frankenstein attention fell upon him. Victor could practically see the waves of potent stress rolling off of him as he surveyed the table, eyes flicking from Liz’s expectancy to Justine’s amusement to William’s only barely falsified pleading face. Somehow, the flash of hazel his eyes made across the room failed to disturb Victor now. They were just looked so right on Jascha, Victor couldn’t imagine anyone else ever holding the color. “Well, I…” Jascha trailed off and glanced to Ernest, who smiled adoringly. Jascha gazed back softly. “I think it should go to Ernest, of course.”

        Like the pull of a trigger, the table exploded into action.

        “Biased opinion!” Liz shouted as Justine attempted to pull her back into her chair.

        “Conjecture!” William added, shooting a deadly glare towards a beaming Ernest, who was now draped across the arm of a terrified looking Jascha.

        “The jury was against us all along!” Victor nodded seriously to William. “This is a invalid trial and I demand a review!” He grinned as he felt Henry lean over to laugh against his shoulder and instructed himself not to break concentration despite his overwhelming desire to kiss him.

        “Order in the court.” Their father stood from his chair and clinked a fork against his glass. “Order, order!”

        The group fell silent at once. His father straightened his tie and examined each occupant of the table in turn.

        Victor half expected some big speech. He felt like one was due. Perhaps an examination on family changes and growth, on setbacks and losses, on Jascha and Henry, on new beginnings and brighter tomorrows, on fear and lunacy, on the sadness still felt acutely in the bend of Henry’s brow and the stoop in Ernest’s shoulder and the still healing scars along Jascha’s wrists and the air of teetering instability which hung over Victor like a smog.

        Or maybe on something else. Maybe on the inherent brightness of his lover’s smile and the hopefulness Ernest spread across his traveled path and the renewed strength of Jascha’s stance and the fact that Victor was sitting here with his family, sitting and laughing and, for the first time in living memory, feeling as if he really, truly belonged there, anchored as he was by Henry’s hand and heartbeat.

        Instead of a speech, however, his father simply cracked a smile. “Children,” he announced, “I cannot tell a lie. I’m leaving everything to the cat.”

        Victor laughed as chaos descended over the table once more and, stealing a quick kiss from Henry, jumped immediately back into the fray.

 

* * *

 

        “Okay, I need to go play the violin now,” Jascha said quickly as he stood up. Everyone kind of gawked at him, since he’d been quiet during dinner and there wasn’t anything awkward going on that he might be trying to escape. He placed Maisie, the kitten, on Ernest’s lap.

        “Are you okay?” Henry asked, gentle concern toying on his features. Ah. They probably weren’t used to the urgency with which Jascha had to play the violin. Unlike his parents, they probably weren’t accustomed to the carnal wrongness of going any length of time longer than a day without playing. And he’d gone nearly two months.

        “Yes,” Jascha smiled. He caught Alphonse’s eye, who looked...proud of him? That wasn’t right. They weren’t related. “You, uh. You’re all welcome to come listen, I guess…”

        Jascha almost took back his statement as pretty much everyone rose to follow him out of the dining room. Even Justine and Lizzie, who he was convinced didn’t know what classical music was. He glued himself to Ernest as they walked to the piano room.

        “What are you going to play?” Ernest asked quietly. Maisie was asleep in his arms.

        “I…” He suddenly couldn’t remember the names of any composer or piece he’d ever seen in his life. Ten years ago that would have been enough to send him into a fainting spell. “I think I’ll just see what happens. When I pick it up.”

        “Sounds good.” Ernest smiled. He looked completely confident in him, and that helped. What helped more was that he stopped being aware of anything around him the minute he saw the violin case. He wandered over to it as the others all found seats.

        He’d looked at it earlier, and had come close to getting a chance to play it, but apparently Ernest’s family was big on doing things as a family, and Jascha was apparently included. He couldn’t possibly _not_ spend time with them, since Alphonse had gone out of his way to somehow find a top quality violin for him to practice with. Rich people were capable of amazing things.

        As he ran his fingers along the ribs of the bright, gold instrument, the memories came back to him. He was touching the violin with his own hands, and it felt so much more right than it had in the music shop last month. He flexed the fingers on his left hand, checking for any stiffness or pain. Nothin, at least not yet. He would probably be commanded to stop after one piece by either Victor or Ernest. He’d have to make it count.

        Bruch. It was a dynamic, victorious piece, and it would give him a chance to brush up on his ability to coordinate his music with his feelings. He was planning to play it first anyway, since it was his mother’s favorite concerto. He swallowed hard, and looked up. So many more eyes were watching him than had been in the music shop. He found Ernest’s and focused on him. He looked so excited, and Jascha realized with harsh embarrassment that he’d somehow managed to sleep with him before he’d even heard him play. It was like he’d just missed out on introducing Ernest to approximately all of the other things he cared about.

        He lifted the bow to the string; felt the never ceasing fear that the bow would fall out of his grip or he’d drop the violin; and started the opening phrase of the Bruch. Everything other than the violin and Ernest dropped from his mind. His fingers knew exactly what to do without him having to think about it. Of course they did, they’d played each measure of this piece several hundred times. They had nineteen-odd years of memory behind their motions, and it felt like the most important piece of him had finally returned.

        The violin was lovely; it didn’t have as deep or complex a sound as Kroshka, but that was probably because it was pristine and never had to undergo major surgery in order to salvage it. Jascha closed his eyes as he reached the emotionally rich second movement of the piece. He was afraid that if Ernest caught him crying he’d be forced to stop. He wished he had the fully orchestra behind him, and that his parents were waiting in the wings for him. Soon, he thought. Soon everything would go back to normal- better than normal, since Ernest was with him. He could probably convince the stage manager to let Ernest stay backstage with his parents. If not him, then his mother absolutely could. Or his father. Pretty much every American was terrified of him, so all he’d have to is lay on the accent a little thicker and stand menacingly.

        He opened his eyes again, finding Ernest for the last movement. He beamed at him as he played the joyous, complex phrases. He loved him so much, and now Ernest would be able to see him for everything he was. He had his hands, and a violin. Ernest looked awe-struck and it was a good look on him. Jascha didn’t bother looking at anyone else; he just wanted to see Ernest. His warm brown eyes watched him with all the affection he could ever ask for, his dark curls loosely framed his face. His lips, which Jascha knew for a fact were soft, were drawn into an absent smile. The little cat was even watching him with huge orange eyes. Who knew cats liked music? Jascha certainly didn’t.

        Jascha allowed himself some artistic liberties with some of the longer runs, since his hands only ached a little and the piece was too much fun not to play with. He didn’t do anything to it as drastic as he would have in the Vitali, but he did add a few grace notes in some of the less decorated measures. Whatever he thought, his hands obeyed without delay or uncertainty. He let his body sway with the sweeping phrases in the second half of the movement, lost in the joy of it all. He had to fight the urge to play the violin portion of the orchestral part during the rests as well. The orchestra had some particularly nice phrases, but he needed to focus on finishing the piece before the cramp in his left hand got too bad to play.

        He put all of his energy into the last several measures, ignoring the pain as he finished the last runs and reached the final, dramatic chords. When he stopped, he jumped at the applause. He always forgot that people did that at the end of a piece. He smiled shyly and gave a little bow.

        “Jascha, you’re amazing!” Ernest said as he gave him a tight hug. Jascha had to awkwardly lift the bow and the violin out of the way for him.

        “Marvelous,” Alphonse said quietly, smiling at him warmly. “You played that one several years ago, correct? At the Nichols Concert Hall?”

        “Mhm.” Jascha nodded, a blush creeping across his cheeks as Henry and William joined Ernest in hugging him. “Wait, let me put the violin down before you all touch me.” They gave him space and he tucked the violin back into its case, running his fingers over the strings on more time before he closed it. Now that the endorphins were wearing off, his hand hurt. Ernest caught him massaging it and took it in his own hands.

        “Are you okay?” Ernest said as he massaged the muscles in his palm and fingertips.

        “Yes,” Jascha smiled. He looked back at Alphonse. He felt like he should say something. A thank you or some other expression of gratitude. He pulled free from Ernest and walked over, hugging Alphonse tightly. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

        “You’re more than welcome,” Alphonse said gently, returning Jascha’s hug and patting him lightly on the shoulder.

        “Play another piece!” William said happily. “Play again!”

        “William, his hands need a break,” Ernest laughed and tousled his hair.

        “Yeah, we wouldn’t want to cause lasting damage to Jascha’s delicate fingers, now would we?” Victor said with a smirk. Jascha’s heart dropped.

        “Lasting damage?” Jascha released Alphonse to turn to Victor, clutching his left hand protectively.

        “You’re fine,” Victor reassured. “Just take it easy.”

        Jascha nodded and returned to Ernest. Lizzie whacked him on the back, startling him again. He pressed himself against Ernest’s side and only breathed once he held his hand.

        “Look at you, Mr. Virtuoso,” Lizzie smiled.

        “You’re pretty good at that,” Justine said in cool approval.

        “He’s the best at it!” William protested. Justine said nothing but pinched his cheek lightly. “Hey! I’m not a baby!”

        “You look like a baby to me,” Justine said calmly.

        “He’s a baby,” Lizzie confirmed, squishing his cheeks.

        “Hey!” William laughed. Ernest let go of Jascha’s hand and picked William up. They looked ridiculous, and Jascha couldn’t help but laugh. William and Ernest really did look alike,

        “Yup, he’s a baby,” Ernest laughed. There was a little scream of protest from down by Jascha’s feet and he scooped up the kitten.

        “You’re an actual baby,” Jascha said to the cat as she climbed up onto his shoulder, tiny claws hooking painfully into his skin. Ernest saw the kitten and put William down, crowding Jascha in order to pet her.

        Dinner ended late and the Bruch took a little more than half an hour with all the preparation and applause, so it was fairly late for William and Alphonse. Jascha was happy when everyone started going back to their respective rooms and the attention was no longer on him. He let Maisie stay perched on his shoulder as he and Ernest walked up to the third floor. Once in his room, Jascha placed her on the ground. She promptly found his Juilliard sweater and curled up on it. Jascha smiled as he felt Ernest’s arms wrap around him from behind.

        “Hello,” Jascha said quietly, placing a hand over Ernest’s arm. “Did you enjoy Christmas?”

        “You’re so good,” Ernest said dreamily. “At, like, everything. Violin, ballet. The play, too, even though you were only, like, seventeen,” Ernest’s breath hitched. “The ballet especially.”

        Jascha turned so he could face Ernest, running his fingers lovingly down the side of his face. Ernest closed his eyes, leaning against his touch. His skin was so soft and his light smattering of freckles so cute that Jascha had to kiss him on his cheek. He let Ernest stretch up to meet his lips, catching his breath as Ernest pressed his hips flush against his own. He pulled away and smirked slightly.

        “You really liked the Manon,” Jascha laughed, running a hand down Ernest’s side.

        “Who wouldn’t?” Ernest whispered against his neck, leaning heavily against Jascha’s chest. “It was hot.”

        “It was awkward,” Jascha said lightly, running his thumbs along the ridge of Ernest’s hips. He could feel the muscles in Ernest’s core tense as he grew hard.

        “It wasn’t awkward,” Ernest said in a breathy whisper as Jascha raised an eyebrow at him. “...Maybe it was a little awkward. Watching it with other people.”

        “There aren’t other people now,” Jascha said against his ear. He slid his hand over by a few inches and ran a finger over Ernest’s erection, eliciting a small sound from him even though it was light and over his pants.

        “I don’t want you to strain your hands,” Ernest said weakly, tangling his fingers in Jascha’s hair. He ignored Ernest’s complaint, pushing him onto the bed.

        “I won’t use my left hand,” Jascha whispered, sliding Ernest’s t-shirt over his head. Ernest fumbled with the buttons on Jascha’s shirt, but they finally managed to free him from it. Ernest practically tore his sweatpants off and fought with Jascha’s belt until his previously nicely ironed dress pants were also on the floor in a pile.

        Jascha slid his hand between Ernest’s legs, his own arousal growing as his partner came undone. He felt comfortable enough to tease him, never quite committing to enough pressure to grant Ernest any relief. He smiled as Ernest moaned and clung to his neck.

        “Jascha, for the love of--” Ernest cut himself off with a groan as Jascha pressed the pad of his thumb against the head of his cock, precum slick against his fingers. “Please…” Ernest moaned, kissing his neck desperately and grinding their hips together.

        Jascha kissed him quickly on the cheek before moving down, pressing a kiss right below Ernest’s navel and massaging the insides of his thighs. His muscles strained beneath his touch, tensing with pleasure wherever his fingers stroked. He took Ernest into his mouth, his full erection heavy against his tongue. He did to Ernest what he’d done to him the last time he was given head, teasing the head of his cock with the tip of his tongue with every stroke. The action rewarded him with little moans from Ernest as he pulled gently at Jascha’s hair.

        Ernest moaned his name as he came, and Jascha’s pace turned gentler as he swallowed his slightly salty cum. Jascha pressed his face against Ernest’s neck as he came back up, gasping as Ernest’s hand joined his own as he worked to relieve his own erection. He let Ernest turn him onto his back and place his arms around his neck, gazing at him adoringly as Ernest took him into his mouth. He bit his lip as Ernest found the rhythm he liked, taking him in deeper than he had before. Ernest looked at him with his velvety gaze and flushed cheeks, successfully throwing Jascha over the edge. He knew the sound he made was embarrassingly pornographic, but he couldn’t care. Ernest returned by his side and he snuggled against him, still high and dizzy from pleasure.

        “I love you,” Jascha said against Ernest’s cheek as he stroked his hair. Ernest still smelled like the fancy cologne his aunt sent him; cardamom and earthy warmth. Jascha approved.

        “I love you, too,” Ernest kissed him sleepily on the cheek. “We should get ready for bed. You shouldn’t be sleep deprived when your parents come tomorrow.”

 

        They were thoroughly tangled up in each other with the kitten sleeping on the pillow right above Ernest’s head when they heard the scream. Jascha was a lighter sleeper than Ernest by several hundred miles, so he snapped awake first. Ernest reached for him and groaned.

        “What’s up?” Ernest said, taking his hand.

        “Someone screamed,” Jascha said quietly. Another wail, and Jascha was on his feet.

        “Is that...It isn’t Victor,” Ernest said blearily as he sat up, senses quickly returning to him. “Henry? Why would Henry be screaming?”

        “I don’t know,” Jascha pulled on his Juilliard sweater. “I’m going to go see what’s wrong. You can stay here if you want.”

        “No, I’ll come,” Ernest said as he placed the kitten at the foot of the bed, motivated by the sound of other people getting up and running down the stairs. “I think it came from the kitchen,” Ernest said with panic in his eyes.

        “Why would Henry be panicking in the kitchen?” Jascha asked as they took the stairs two at a time. They looked like wrecks, and Ernest had a little red mark on his collar bone where Jascha had kissed him a bit too hard, but they’d just have to cope.

        “Knives,” Ernest said darkly.

        “Knives?” Jascha asked as they reached the foot of the stairs. Ernest squeezed his hand almost painfully hard as they ran to the kitchen. Sure enough, Henry was holding a knife out to Victor with one hand and an open letter in the other.

 


	49. Departures and Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry reads a letter. Victor is in control. Jascha is reunited with his parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello All! Thanks for sticking with us through the awkwardly scheduled updates! College is just like that sometimes. Regardless! We always love hearing what you have to say!!
> 
> Trigger Warnings for this chapter include: suicide, attempted suicide, panic attacks, knives, and references to past trauma

        “Don’t open it,” Victor said as Henry paced around their bedroom. “There is no reason to make yourself miserable over _her_ on Christmas.”

        “It’s not going to make me miserable,” Henry said as he gently sat on the bed. “She said she’d send a note when she was away. Everything’s fine.” He turned the envelope over in his head. His name was written in perfect green cursive. There was no address or stamp.

        “You need to get a hold of yourself.” Victor sat next to him and grabbed his shoulders. “Fine people don’t leave unaddressed notes on doorsteps.”

        “Am I just supposed to leave it forever?” Henry asked leaning into Victor’s touch. He was warm and still smelled like Christmas. Russian cookies and pine trees and leeches.

        “Yes! Leave it forever and never look back.” Victor pressed his forehead against Henrys and sighed. “I know you can’t do that.”

        “I can’t.” Henry kissed Victor’s cheek and delighted when he saw the ghost of a smile flicker across his face.

        “Then wait for the morning when everyone can be here for you.”

        “There’s nothing to need to ‘be there’ for.” Henry cuddled deeper into Victor’s side.

        “Henry.” Victor urged him to lay down on the bed.

        “Victor...”

        “Just sleep. Please, just sleep until tomorrow and we can read it in the morning, okay? I promise. And I can get Dad and everything will be okay.”

        “Everything’s going to be okay, anyway.” Henry wrapped his arms around his lover’s waist and breathed in the scent of his hair. He was soft and he breathed and his heart beat through Henry’s fingers.

        They cuddled and he felt Victor softly drift away, but Henry did not sleep. His mind raced around in self aggravating circles. His mother was fine. She was free. After a life of being tortured, she was free. Free from Lawrence. Free from him.

        He ran his fingers over the envelope again, tracing his nail along his name. It felt like flesh. It had a pulse and a breath and it swelled warm and fat under his fingertips. The edge of the flap bit with little nematocyst teeth and stung just under his fingernails. He felt the sudden, violent urge to tear them off. The blood seemed oddly vindicating and could wash away the burn.

        Henry wondered where his mother went. Hopefully someplace far away where no one could ever find her again. She could have a new family with a new son and forget Henry and Lawrence ever happened. No more pin-curls or white picket fences or broken noses or bloody knives. Maybe she would have a yard and a dog. They always talked about getting a dog when he was a kid. A big dog with lots of fur and a loud bark. A dog that would never let them get hurt ever again.

        Where could Meredith go where Henry’s couldn’t follow? Henry remembered little portraits pinned to their fridge. There were still lifes of flower vases and piles of books. Henry was so small. He was allowed to look, but not to touch. Everything was gossamer and stars, unraveling in his hands and burning into his palms.

        His lover whined when he left the bed, but wasn’t quite awake enough to protest. He was so quiet. So alive. Now, even when he slept, Victor had a glow to his cheeks and vitality under his skin. Henry wasn’t sleeping with a corpse anymore. He held the letter in his hands as he carried it away. He bore it the way a priest might bear his holy book. With palms outstretched he set it on the kitchen table. He pressed his thumbs on either side of his name. The envelope depressed and didn’t rise again, leaving an imperfect crinkle in its facade. He tried to smooth it out, again and again and again. There wasn’t anything he could do to make it lie flat again.

        For the briefest flicker of a moment, he considered throwing it away like Victor said. He could never see her. Never again. What was the point of trying to follow where he could not. And what was he supposed to do? Leave Victor and Ernest and his family, the family that always loved him? No. Never.

        And she chose to leave Henry. He couldn’t forget. She could have stayed with him. He offered and she didn’t take it. Because he wasn’t good enough. Because he was still a flaw. An aberration. Because she still secretly agreed with everything she did. Because she was a liar and a snake, just like Victor said.

        No, no. That wasn’t true. Henry saw the look in her eyes. The true repentance burned as bright as holy fire. He knew. He had to know. Henry tore open the envelope. This was it. This was it.

         _Dear my beloved Henry Lucien,_

         _I wish I could have seen you for Christmas. I know that if I knocked, Alphonse would have let me in, but I got scared. I saw you once. Just one more time. Right now, you’re sitting with Victor in the same chair and you’re beaming at a little boy I don’t know. I wish I could stay and look forever on your new, happy life, but I have to finish my note. It’s the last thing I have to do._

         _I had forgotten what it was like to see you smile and now I know. I know you’re happy and you don’t need me anymore. You haven’t needed me for years. It’s not your fault, Henry. I can’t continue knowing what I’ve done to you. What I’ve allowed your father to do to you. I was a coward. There are no excuses left that could possibly justify the hell that I have dragged you through. This time you aren’t allowed to come with me._

         _I’ll go home soon. Cook a last dinner and make a last cup of coffee. I’ll finally have the courage to read that book full of poetry that you love. That would be it. I’ve already held you for the last time, but I still can’t take my eyes off you. You have grown into the man I always knew you could be. I’m proud that you have found your family. I am proud of everything you will become._

         _I killed myself. Now, you’ll never have to be scared again.I love you. I know it’s hard, Henry, but please be brave. You were the last bright thing in my life._

         _Forever and Always,_

                                    _Mama_

        There was nothing. Everything was too bright and Henry needed to sit down. He pressed his palms into the marble countertop but it wasn’t cool. The air around him stung and burned, like sea sponge spines were trying to restructure his skin. They sewed and knit and split him apart by every seam in his flesh.

        “Henry?” Victor stumbled into the room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “It’s too early to be alive.” There was a beat and the two and then three. “Why do you have a knife?”

        Henry shrieked. His mother herself pulled the noise from deep within his ribcage. Her perfectly manicured nails tore through his lungs and esophagus leaving tracks of beaded blood.

        “Henry, I need you to give me the knife.” Alphonse’s voice came out of Victor’s body.

        “You have to do it!” Henry screamed as he pressed the flat of the blade to Victor’s chest. Jascha and Ernest barreled down the stairs and William quickly followed.

        “Why is there so much yelling?” William asked. Ernest turned and carried him out of the room. Maybe he was yelling too? The sound echoed around the room and crushed into his skull until he was sure it would tear the very fiber of his bone apart.

        “Henry, you need to let go. You need to let go of the knife!” Victor’s voice rose in panic. “Please let go of the knife!”

        “You have to do it!” Henry screamed. “You need to promise me first!” He wanted someone to rip through his veins one at a time until he bled, sliding the knife up and down his muscle and skin until the loosened from his bones. He wanted to fall apart and be just pieces of a person left to be food for black beetles, pigs, and dogs.

        “Anything. I’ll do anything, love. Just please let go of the knife.” Victor held Henry arms so they were flush against his chest.

        “Kill me!” Henry’s voice was filled with blood and phlegm and whatever else was supposed to come out of his vile body. “I don’t deserve this anymore!”

        “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No, no. I can’t do that. Henry, I love you! I can’t! I won’t! Henry!” Victor wept.

        “You promised!” Henry shrieked. “You promised me!” He tightened his grip on his knife and felt tiny splinters shoot into the joints of his fingers. He tried to fight as someone pried his fingers away from the cold steel. “You have to kill me! You promised!”

        “Henry,” Jascha’s voice tore around him like a fire. “Do you remember the promise we made? For William and Ernest, remember? We can do it for William and Ernest.”

        “I just want to die, please. Please, just let me die!” He tried to thrash against the two men holding him, but he couldn’t move. Alphonse appeared over Victor’s shoulder, out of breath and shaking. The knife lay discarded on the kitchen floor.

        “Henry, can you breathe with me?” Victor ran his free hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead so he had to make eye contact. His look would never go away. “In through your nose and out through your mouth.” All Henry could see were his eyes, bloodshot and filled with tears. Both Jascha and Alphonse slowed their breathing to match Victor’s. Henry inhaled but smelled rot and wood. He exhaled by the air got caught by the mucus in his throat.

        “I’m trying as hard as I can!” he yelled.

        “Let’s sit down, okay?” Jascha’s voice was like the sea. “Victor can hold you or I can or both of us.” They urged Henry to the ground. He felt his legs crumple beneath him like he were a poorly made paper mache puppet. He grabbed Victor and Jascha’s hands as feeling slowly returned. Victor held Henry against his chest and rocked him gently from side to side, his free hand splayed over his heart. Beating, beating. It was beating and he wanted to make it stop.

        “Mama left me a note,” Henry wept.

        Alphonse moved and held the letter in his hand. “Oh Henry,” he whispered.

        “She’s dead,” Henry’s voice pitched back into a wail. “I don’t deserve to be alive!”

        He felt Victor bury his face into his hair, eyes still wet with tears.

        A moment stretched on for eternity in the silence that drifted around the kitchen floor. It snapped and wriggled though Henry’s limbs, but he could feel it moving and it was real. Alphonse placed a hand on Henry’s knee. “I can’t lose you. Not like I lost Lavenza and Caroline. Not you too. Promise me, Henry.”

        Henry still felt the wood in his joints and the phlegm in his throat, but he somehow managed the strength to speak without it having to be forced from him. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

        It was very convenient that they’d convinced Henry to sit because Victor was sure his own legs were going to give out either way. As he knelt on the floor, face still pressed into Henry’s hair, he willed himself to whatever level of calmness and control he was capable. This wasn’t just panic, after all. This was a situation. If Victor hadn’t woken up, if Henry hadn’t screamed loud enough to alert Jascha and Ernest, if-

        He didn’t need to be thinking about that. He absolutely needed to be thinking about this. Henry was still in his arms and he was shaking and just because he’d promised not to die, it didn’t mean anything certain. Victor tried to think through all the steps he was supposed to take in this kind of situation and came up blank. Then he tried to think of all the things others did for him when he was ran parallel to Henry’s current state and also came up blank. Somehow, he didn’t think locking Henry in an office and removing all sharp objects until he calmed down again would be particularly helpful. That would probably, in fact, be the exact opposite of helpful.

        The knife had felt cold against his chest even through his thick nightshirt and Victor felt sick, waves and pitches swelling through his organs like the churning of a tide. He was vaguely aware that he was whispering little nothings and assurances to into Henry’s hair but he had no idea what he was actually saying.

        Victor looked up to look at Jascha, who still sat holding Henry’s other hand. For once, the anxious man seemed to be the calmest in the room. Or maybe he wasn’t really all that calm, maybe Victor was just too used to judging calmness on a scale of Henry to Victor, which consisted of various levels of panic divided between the two depending on the day.

        He could be calm too. He needed to be calm. In any case, he was calmer than Henry so that was something. Barely something but something. Victor looked over to his dad, still sitting with a hand on Henry’s knee.

        As his father meet his eye, Victor threw a quick glance between the letter still spread on the counter, a sinister, looming shadow, and Henry’s hunched form. _What are we supposed to do?_ He begged silently.

        Victor didn’t think it was possible for his father to look determined and utterly helpless at once but he somehow managed it though he did not elaborate on his thoughts. Not for the first time, Victor wished that he had dedicated his grad research to developing mind reading abilities rather than raising corpses.

        “Do we know if…” Jascha gave partial speech to Victor’s internal monologue.

        “She’s dead.” Henry answered him, voice split raw and bloody. “There’s no way she’s not. I killed her.”

        “We don’t know that for sure.” His dad said firmly.

        “Should we check?” Jascha asked. “Should we, I don’t know, call the police or something?”

        “No.” Both Henry and Victor said at once.

        “No,” Henry repeated, shaking his head rapidly, “I don’t- If she’s not dead already, that would be enough. That would- He would-”

        “It’s not a good idea.” Victor summed up, wrapping Henry more fully into his arms. He didn’t want this to be happening. This couldn’t be happening. The day had gone so well, everything had been so wonderful and right and sweet and Christmas, it was fucking Christmas, and once again the Clervals had swooped in sullied the entire affair. Well, if Meredith wanted to hang herself from the chandelier with the cord of her curling iron, Victor wasn’t going to stop her. It would be a fitting end, regardless, a nice little slice of justice, and most importantly, she would never be able to touch Henry again. Henry would really be theirs and they’d never have to worry about his horrid family’s abuse and manipulation ever again. Maybe Lawrence would even walk in on his dead wife and be so stricken with grief that he would end up killing himself too. But, who was Victor kidding. Lawrence Clerval would actually have to be in possession of a spine and a heart to pull that kind of stunt off.

        He was yanked out his darker thoughts with a dull pang as Henry buried his face into Victor’s chest. He had to keep reminding himself. Do what’s best for Henry. What was best for Henry though? He didn’t know anymore.

        “Could we call?” Jascha asked his dad. “Maybe if you, I don’t know, ask for her? Ask after her? Would she come with us if we could get to her?”

        “She’s already dead.” Henry’s breathing picked up again, painfully loud and sharp. “I know she is, she has to be, she said she was going to do it after dinner. She’s dead!” Without giving conscious thought to his motions, Victor adjusted his breathing to a ten count again and brought Henry’s hand to his chest. Just as before, Jascha did the same. Hooray for therapy.

        “She said she was going to…” His dad hesitated. “What time is it?”

        “About one in the morning,” Jascha answered.

        His dad’s unsettled frown deepened a degree.

        What were the odds that she waited till Lawrence fell asleep to do it? Probably fairly high. That’s what Victor would do anyways. Wait until everyone was asleep so that there was no one to stop him, let them find him in the morning. Maybe then. Maybe she hadn’t done it yet. But one was also late. Too late.

        “Jascha, stay with Henry for a minute.” Victor kissed Henry’s forehead before standing. He grabbed his father by the wrist and dragged him out of the kitchen and into the hall, traveling just as far as necessary to ensure they wouldn’t be overheard. “Is she dead?” He asked.

        “I have no idea,” His dad answered and Victor could hear the truth in his words accompanied by an unsteadiness underlying his normally even and collected voice.

        “You know her better than I do,” Victor stressed. “Would she go through with it? Would she wait? From what Henry said before, she sounded pretty certain.”

        “As did her letter.” His dad said seriously, sadly, desperately. “I need to go make sure.”

        “Dad,” Victor couldn’t help the incredulous laugh which tore out of him, “you’re- no offense but I don’t think you’re exactly equipped to fight Lawrence. Take it from Henry’s long standing homecare physician, unless you’re planning on pulling some legal wizardry like you did last time, you may as well just go check yourself into a hospital now and save Lawrence the trouble.”

        “He wouldn’t dare. Besides, everything’s already out there.” His dad said, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself than Victor. “If I could just-”

        “Which means,” Victor cut over him, “that Lawrence has absolutely nothing to lose and I’m not entirely confident of my ability to reanimate human life two times in a row, so I would really _really_ prefer if you didn’t die. Especially if she’s already kicked the bucket and you end up dead or hospitalized for a grand prize of nothing.”

        Victor was starting to see that this was little gained, everything lost scenario and all he really wanted to do was go into the kitchen, pull Henry back to bed, and pretend that nothing had ever happened.

        Why couldn’t Henry have just listened to him and thrown out the letter? Why couldn’t someone just believe Victor when he said people didn’t change? Why did Henry ask Victor to kill him? Why, why, why? It had been bad before, of course it had, bottles and blood and bathtubs, but it had never been _bad_ , it had never been actual life and death within Henry’s own hands, in Victor’s.

        The steel had been cold. Cold and unyielding and never ending and ending. Victor could still feel it. Steel on fingers, steel in fingers, blood over fingers, heartbeats, laughter, screaming, flashing eyes, blood and blood and blood, he couldn’t, he could feel it, he could still--

        How long had Henry had these kind of thoughts? Because no matter the circumstances now, this kind of thing didn’t just come up, didn’t just occur to someone out of the blue. Jascha had mentioned a promise to stay alive. How had Victor missed it? How had he missed that it had gotten this bad? Had it always been this bad? Why had he asked Victor to kill him?

        He knew. He knew why.

        “What happens when Lawrence finds out?” Victor asked without preamble, amazed to find his voice even enough to be comprehensible. “He knows Henry is here.”

        That made his dad freeze in his metaphorical tracks and, when he looked back at Victor, it was with a touch more terror than determination. “He wouldn’t come here,” his dad said with mostly true confidence.

        Victor shrugged loosely. “Nothing to lose, right?” He said without humor. “We need to be here in case something happens. All of us.” Nothing was touching Henry. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not next week, not ever again, not ever. Not if Victor was involved. Honestly, not if any of them were involved. He knew everyone in this house would fight for Henry too.

        His dad struggled for a beat, messy and conflicted emotions filtering through his twisted mouth and drawn brows, still held up by the dull hope that Meredith might still be alive, waiting for someone to rescue her from that hellhole, or that she was just standing at the edge. That Henry might still have a mother by the time day came around. Victor, however, had peeled off those particular rose-colored glasses at the grand old age of fourteen. He knew resignation when he heard it, he knew surrender, and the more he talked with his father, the more it seemed to set in, an anvil tied to the ankle and thrown in the river. Meredith wasn’t a dumb woman. She’d thought through all the steps they were discussing now and had probably come to the same conclusions.

        There was no helping her now.

        From the loss of depth in his father’s eyes, he knew it too.

        “I’m going back to Henry,” Victor announced. “He’s the person we have to worry about now. Meredith made her choices and I’m sorry she did,” he paused. “I am. Really. But you heard Henry. You read the note. She’s gone.” It felt like the right plan of action. It also felt completely and totally wrong and Victor desperately wished he could ask Henry the right thing to do. What he wanted to do. This was his mom, despite her wickedness. This was his mom.

        Lingering steel and cold.

        Victor couldn’t ask him.

        He walked back into the kitchen to see Henry leaned entirely against Jascha, sobbing but not quite so desperately. Now he just sounded wretched. Victor sat beside him and offered a hand, which Henry took willingly. He wished there was something solid he could say but there was nothing that could make this right. Nothing at all.

        So instead he listened as Jascha made a valiant show of assuring Henry that this was not the worst night of his life, despite the fact that it absolutely was, and channeled every inch of his paranoia into watching the doorway, content in the knowledge that he was teetering just close enough to his own edge that he’d be able to kill and die for Henry’s sake should it come to that.

 

* * *

 

        “Alphonse,” Jascha said quietly once Henry passed out against his chest. It was nearly four in the morning. “My family is on the plane here right now, should I tell them not to stay? I could go back to the city-”

        “It’s better if you stay here,” Alphonse interjected. “If possible.”

        “Won’t new people make the situation worse?” Jascha desperately wanted his parents to come, more than ever, but Henry was having the worst time of his life, despite any words of comfort he might offer.

        “Are your parents good at handling crises? And, you know,” Alphonse gestured to Victor, Henry and Jascha. “I know you understand that I can’t expose any of you to more homophobia than you’ve already had. Ernest, too.” Something shifted on his face. “Where is he? And William?”

        “I saw them run to the back porch,” Victor said quietly.

        “They can’t still be outside, right?” Fresh worry creased Alphonse’s brow. He turned on his heel, leaving Victor and Jascha alone with Henry.

        “Where are Lizzie and Justine?” Jascha asked. He hadn’t seen them around, which was odd. He knew that they were both good at handling these things.

        “Back at the apartment,” Victor said flatly. “They’ll be back for New Years.”

        Jascha heard the back door open and close, and the hush of voices. Alphonse rejoined them in the kitchen, but there was no sign of William or Ernest. “Are they okay?” Jascha asked softly. As much as he wanted to be there for Henry, he had the urge to move him over to Victor so that he could run and check on Ernest.

        “Ernest doesn’t like knives.” Alphonse looked exhausted. “He’s going to help William go back to bed. I told them both that Henry is sleeping and unharmed.”

        “My parents are nice, by the way,” Jascha said as Alphonse looked at him. “I...haven’t told them about Ernest yet, but I think it’ll be okay.”

        “I trust your judgement,” Alphonse sighed. “I...admit that it could be beneficial to have a couple other parents around to keep an eye on things while Henry and I work out what to do,” his eyes flickered between the three of them before settling back on Jascha. “Do they have any experience with psychiatric crises?”

        “You mean crazy people?” Victor offered unhelpfully.

        “Victor-” Alphonse started.

        “They do,” Jascha said quickly. “I was in therapy for a couple years for panic attacks, and my mom has really bad anxiety.”

        “That will help,” Alphonse nodded. “What about with suicide?” He added darkly.

        “Uh, no,” Jascha thought about it. He’d never been a danger to himself, and from everything he’d been told his mother only flew towards that particular edge when faced with losing a child. And that seemed kind of reasonable. “I mean, my mother didn’t want to...live. After the accident. But I don’t think she hurt herself.” Now he was worried again. What if she had? He’d never forgive himself. “My dad would never let her hurt herself,” he whispered, more to himself than everyone else.

        Alphonse drew a heavy breath. “Then I think it will be good to have them around,” he said resolutely. “And I think we ought to help Henry back to bed. No sense in keeping him here.”

        As Alphonse stood, so did Victor, teetering on his feet. His father caught his arm to help him stand. Jascha eyed Henry. He was bigger than Victor, and maybe around the same height as Ernest but without his athletic build. He could probably carry him. He maneuvered and arm under Henry’s knees and one behind his back and hefted him up, doing his best not to wake him.

        Once he was tucked into bed, Jascha stepped out. Alphonse and Victor were better equipped to handle Henry from here. He walked down the hall to William’s room, placing an ear to the closed door. He could hear William crying, so he knocked. Ernest opened the door.

        “Jascha,” he said miserably, wrapping his arms around him. “Is he okay?”

        “Mhm, as good as he can be right now,” Jascha said quietly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “How are you two?” He asked as Ernest pulled away from him. William was very clearly trying to hide the fact that he was sobbing, and he was clutching the kitten to his chest for comfort. To her credit, Maisie seemed fine with it.

        “Ernest, don’t go,” William said sadly. In an instant Ernest was back beside him, cradling his little brother against his chest.

        “Is it okay if Jascha stays too?” Ernest asked gently. Jascha stood awkwardly by the door. If it was four or five in the morning, that meant his parents would land in the next couple of hours. He had at most until 8AM before they’d arrive here.

        “Mhm,” William nodded, scooching over so that Jascha could fit beside Ernest. It probably would have been sweet if it wasn’t so sad; Jascha was holding Ernest, who in turn was holding William. He wondered if this was what his parents did when he was little.

 

        Jascha realized he’d fallen asleep when he woke to light knocking on the door. “Jascha?” Alphonse asked from outside. “Are you in there?”

        “Yes,” he said, disentangling himself from Ernest and William. Of course, the minute he let go of Ernest, his eyes fluttered open.

        “Jascha…?” He asked blearily. Jascha bent down and kissed his temple.

        “My parents are going to be here very soon,” Jascha said quietly.

        “I want to come.” Ernest pulled away from William, who was sleeping contentedly with Maisie in the crook of his arm. Ernest kissed both of them before following Jascha to the door.

        Alphonse looked both of them over, frowning slightly. “You’ll both want to shower and change. If they come while you’re getting cleaned up, I can stall.”

        Parents. That was happening, and from the looks of it very soon. Jascha practically ran up the stairs to Ernest’s room, leaving both doors open as he rushed to the bathroom. After doing everything he needed to do with the sink, he stripped unceremoniously and got into the shower even before the water was up to temperature. He jumped as Ernest pulled back the curtain and got in with him. Jascha frowned slightly as he saw the mark he’d left on Ernest’s neck.

        “It’s just a hickey,” Ernest said lightly as they both washed their hair.

        “It’s a hickey,” Jascha said darkly. “I was planning on telling my parents that I love you, but not admitting that I have sex.”

        “I’m sure they’d assume that you’ve had sex by now.” Ernest smiled. Jascha paled.

        “Parents aren’t allowed to know about sex,” Jascha said as he rinsed conditioner out of his hair. Ernest laughed at him.

        “Parents tend to know a lot more about sex than anyone wants them to,” Ernest smiled. He looked tired, but not like he had after Mason. That was a good sign.

        They dried off and Ernest set about to brushing his teeth and stuff while Jascha went to get dressed. When Ernest emerged, he cocked his head to the side.

        “What?” Jascha asked, pulling his favorite green and black flannel shirt over his Tanglewood t-shirt.

        “You haven’t seen your parents in months, and out of all the clothes you own you choose a flannel over a t-shirt?” Ernest smiled, picking out his own clothes. He was wearing expensive, dark jeans and a blue cashmere sweater over a button-down. He looked like the world’s sweetest yacht owner.

        “This is how I normally dress,” Jascha smiled. “They wouldn’t recognize me if I wore cashmere. Or willingly wore dress pants.”

        “You look very cute,” Ernest said as he kissed him on the cheek. They looked like opposites; Ernest was perfect and posh, whereas Jascha literally looked like someone scooped him out of his performing arts high school.

        They made it downstairs in record time, and when they met Alphonse in the kitchen they saw that pretty much every sharp object had miraculously disappeared. He smiled at them over his mug of coffee. “You both look very nice,” he said affectionately.

        “I need to impress his mom,” Ernest beamed, grabbing a protein bar.

        “She will be plenty impressed that I have a partner at all,” Jascha said as he got coffee for himself. “My dad will be jealous of your sweater. He likes cashmere.”

        “Everyone likes cashmere,” Alphonse said lightly.

        Jascha nearly dropped his mug of coffee as he heard a car driving down the driveway. Ernest swallowed the last of the bar and placed a soothing hand on his back. “Ready?” He said gently, rubbing the tension out of his shoulders.

        “I- no. Yes. Maybe?” Jascha’s brain was simultaneously going a hundred miles an hour while also being stuck closed. He heard the car park. “Okay. Okay. Time to go,” he ran towards the front door, trailed by Ernest and Alphonse.

        He threw open the door and stopped cold. It was unreal. He saw his mother and father getting their suitcases out of the trunk of a taxi. As his mother turned to look at him, he felt like he was in a dream. Her long, light brown hair was tied in a near twist, and she was wearing one of her nicer dresses. Why was she wearing her nice clothes? High heels didn’t make sense in the freezing Chicago winter. Then again, Jascha wasn’t even wearing a coat. He jammed his feet into shoes and ran to her.

        “Mom!” He yelled, tears stinging his eyes as they met the frigid air.

        “Jascha?” His mother said quietly. He stopped, taking her hands in his. His father joined them. In the past month he’d developed a few grey hairs at his temples, but other than that he looked the same, his jet black hair neatly swept back and his handsome yet cold features as impossible to read as always. They both scrutinized his face.

_“How is this possible?”_ His father finally said, reaching out a hand and cupping Jascha’s face. Jascha closed his eyes and leaned against his warm touch.

        “Lukas, it’s him. Look, he’s okay. He’s really here,” his mother said breathlessly as she looked at his hands, running her fingers lightly over his. When she looked at him again she was crying. “Jascha, my baby, you’re okay,” she cried as she held him.

        “Dad?” Jascha looked to his father as his hand fell away from his face. “Oh, my god. Are you- you’re-” he couldn’t process what he was seeing. His father was pinching the bridge of his nose, tears rolling slowly down his sharp cheeks.

         _“Jashen’ka, I don’t understand but I’m so happy you’re here,”_ he said quietly as he wrapped his arms around both him and his mom. Jascha had been shocked out of crying, at least until he felt his father kiss his forehead. He cried as his mother kissed his hands and stretched up on the tips of her toes to kiss his face. She smelled the same as always; the floral perfume and the clean smell of her lotion.

        “Jascha, you need to tell us everything,” she whispered, resting her ear against his chest.

        “I don’t know everything,” Jascha said, wiping his eyes.

         _“Where is your rich friend?”_ his father asked, evidently recovered from his temporary show of emotions. At least, recovered enough to be unreadable again.

        Jascha looked over his shoulder, seeing Ernest hanging back by the doorstep. He walked over when Jascha looked at him. “Dad, Mom, this is Ernest. He’s, uh. My partner.” He forced himself to look at his parents.

        “Hi,” Ernest said shyly, glancing nervously at Jascha’s father, who towered over him. Jascha wished his dad would at least pretend to be a normal human for Ernest.

        “Like, stand partner?” His mother asked slowly, looking between the two of them. Jascha bit his lip, watching her bright green eyes carefully as he shook his head. “Oh. _Oh,_ ” she said quietly before smiling at both of them. “Hello, Ernest,” she said sweetly.

        “Kassia?” His father’s brow grew nearly imperceptibly tighter as he looked between the three of them. His dark eyes locked with Jascha’s. _“What does she mean? Who is this boy?”_

        “Love,” his mom said gently, placing a hand on her husband’s chest. “This is his partner. Romantic partner. Boyfriend.”

        “But he’s a boy,” he said plainly. Ernest shot Jascha a nervous glance, and he took his hand gently. His father stared at them, eyes impassive.

        “It’s like Tchaikovsky,” his mom said sweetly. “Remember?”

         _“He’s your mistress?”_ His father asked, and Jascha nearly died.

         _“No, he’s my partner,”_ Jascha said firmly. _“My only one. And he speaks enough Russian to know what we’re saying.”_

         _“You speak Russian?”_ His dad asked, looking at Ernest.

        “Only a little. I’m, uh. Kind of shy about my accent.” Ernest blushed.

        “So he’s your girlfriend, but a boy?” He asked, turning his attention back to Jascha.

        “He’s my boyfriend who is a boy,” Jascha sighed. This was actually going much better than he could have hoped.

        “But,” his father looked back at Ernest. His face, despite the situation, was still mostly unreadable. He probably seemed terrifying to Ernest, who was used to Alphonse’s methods of constant clarity and reassurance. “He’s a boy.”

        “Yes,” his mother said, and Jascha was grateful. “Lukas, we talked about this. Boys sometimes love other boys.”

        “You liked that girl at school,” his father’s brow furrowed.

        “Yes,” Jascha nodded. “But now I like Ernest. I love him,” he smiled weakly as he saw his mother beam at him, taking Ernest’s other hand.

        “And you love Jascha?” She asked, viridian gaze locked on Ernest.

        “Yeah, absolutely,” he smiled. She hugged him, and Jascha almost laughed at the expression of blatant shock on Ernest’s face. She smiled at Jascha again as she released Ernest.

        “Sweetheart, he’s very handsome,” she said approvingly. Jascha blushed and nodded.

        “Dad…?” Jascha said quietly, looking back to his father’s statuesque face. His father sighed, looking between him and Ernest once again.

         _“He’s your boy girlfriend?”_ His dad asked in Lithuanian.

         _“Close enough,”_ Jascha shrugged.

         _“And you love him? He treats you well?”_

         _“Yes,”_ Jascha said firmly. He relaxed as his father held a hand out to Ernest, who shook it tentatively.

        “It’s nice to meet you, Ernest,” his father said, expression still unyielding. “My name is Lukas. This is my wife, Kassia.”

        “Jascha, baby, you look like you’re freezing,” she said gently, focusing back on him. “Can we go inside to talk?”

        Ernest guided them inside, taking their coats and hanging them in the closet. His mother eyed the piano with tempted interest as Jascha guided her by hand to the TV room. His parents sat on the sofa, with him draped across both of their laps, ecstatic in the familiar comfort of their arms.

        “Jascha, tell us everything,” his father said, his tone gentle and commanding.

        And he did.

 


	50. Loud Noises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry has a nightmare. Victor makes toast. Jascha plays Brahms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everyone! And today we update on time! Thank you so much to everyone who comments and gives us kudos! It absolutely makes our day!
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter include: Suicide, violent nightmares, gore, guns, mentions of abuse, panic attacks, and mentions of past trauma.

        “Henry Lucien? Why are you all alone in the dark?”

        Henry tried to turn around and finally felt the grass and dirt against his palms and the soles of his feet. It was wet and cold and bit with frost against the cuts through his skin. At what temperature did blood freeze? It was coming for him soon. Soon and soon and soon.

        A cabin loomed behind him with broken windows; the air reeking with cigarette smoke that slipped its way around his eyes.

        “Henry? Henry Lucien? Where did you go? What did you do? Why is there so much blood?” His mother’s voice rang around him and made his little toddler head dizzy.

        “Mama? Mama?” Henry scrambled to his feet. “Mama, I’m scared! I thought I lost you!” He ran around the house, vaguely aware that he wasn’t supposed to be stepping on glass with bare feet.

        He saw a shadow moving in the corner. “Mama!” He latched onto her legs and buried his face into her knees.

        “Oh, Henry Lucien. What did you do?” She picked him up and cradled him against her chest. She pushed away a piece of hair that fell across the bridge of his nose. No scars. No glasses to hide the scars. “I said you weren't allowed to follow me this time.”

        He clutched her collar and let himself weep into her chest. “I didn’t want to be left alone with Papa. He’ll hit me again and he doesn’t care if I cry.”

        “Baby, this is so much worse.” She brought him over to the bathtub. The once-white porcelain was slick with gore. “Look at you. It must have hurt so much.”

        There was a body in the bathtub. It barely registered to Henry’s tiny brain as a human. Pink liquid slowly dripped down the drain and bits of skull and brain were plastered on the wall. The fluid was dry and cemented to the tile in a sticky paste. Little Henry Lucien stretched out his hand and watched it flake off under his fingernails.

        “Who’s that, Mama?” He asked. There was a small black gun sitting in the man’s lap. It looked angry and heavy and he was afraid.

        “It’s you, baby,” she said, running a hand through his hair. “You shot yourself through the roof of your mouth, Henry. And Victor almost found you too.”

        “Who’s Victor?” He wanted so badly to let the water flow over the strange man’s body; to wash away all the mess. He was so dirty. Mama didn’t like it when he was dirty.

        “He loved you very much and now he’s very sad. You left him alone.” 

        “Am I safe now? With you?” Henry wrapped his arms around her neck and snuggled into her collar bone.

        “I don’t think you are, baby.” she carried his around the house looking. Looking for something Henry didn’t yet know the name of.

        “What’s going to happen now? Are we going to go home? I don’t want to go home.” He tried to hide but there was nowhere to go. There were bad things everywhere; bloody handprints dragged across the wall.

        Victor was huddled under a chair. The muscles in his neck strained as he screamed and clutched his stomach. Bitten nails left crisscrossed scratches on his tender skin. His mother placed him on the ground and he toddled over to him. “Mama, why is he crying?”

        “He misses you, Henry Lucien.”

        “Why does he miss me? I’m right here.” The world seemed to wobble and he could start thinking in complex sentences again. “Mother, why are you doing this to me?”

        “You’re in hell, sweetheart. I told you not to follow me here.” His mother pressed the bloody gun into his hands.

        “What am I supposed to do with this?” Henry was starting to feel more like himself again. He was able to haul himself to his feet and run up the stairs like an adult. He almost didn’t notice Victor following.

        “I think you know,” she said before she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be waiting for you when you’re done.”

        “No! I won’t do it! I’ll just stay here forever!” His voice pitched into screaming.

        “Then why did you kill yourself in the first place? You already chose me.”

        “Victor!” Henry begged as he saw the man stagger into the bathroom.

        Victor climbed into the bathtub and cradled Henry’s corpse against his chest running his hands through his hair and fingers tracing through the hole in the back of his head. Henry felt his breath on his forehead as sobbed his grief into the corpse’s wounds.

        “Victor please! You don’t understand! I’m here! I’m right here--” Henry tried to scream as Meredith grabbed his shoulders.

        “You have to! You have to do it now! You promised!” Meredith pushed herself into Henry’s shoulders and forced him to the ground. He wasn’t used to being pushed around by his mother. He fumbled with the gun. Victor weighed the corpse’s gun in the palm on his hand.

        “No!” He lurched towards the bathtub before Meredith forced the gun into his hands and wrapped his fingers around the trigger.

        “Yes! You made your choice. You chose to be with me! You promised me, Henry Lucien!”

        Henry tried to pull away, but his mother squeezed and he shot her in the stomach.. Henry heard a gunshot.

        “Victor?” he asked, refusing to turn around. “Mama?” The silence rang around him. “Victor?” he tried again.

        “Henry?” he asked. He reached out for him and Henry grabbed his forearms and drew him against his chest. Henry screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed. The sound of Victor’s blood running against the porcelain overpowered his shrieking as he forced his nose into Victor’s har, trying desperately to give him back the last whisps of his life force. It didn’t work. 

 

        “Henry!” Victor shook him awake. He didn’t miss a beat and launched himself into his lover’s arms. Fresh tears soaked into Victor’s shirtfront. “They can’t hurt you anymore. They’re just bad dreams.”

        “Will you ever forgive me?” Henry couldn’t find the strength to unlock his muscles as Victor held him upright.

        “Of course I forgive you. Can you tell me what happened?” Victor kissed his greasy hair and rocked him gently against his chest.

        “No,” Henry whispered. He heard people moving downstairs.

        “No?”

        “No, it’s too terrible. I can’t...I don’t know how I’m supposed to live. I don’t…”Henry trailed off. The words got lost on his tongue and in his throat tasting of blood and iron and his lover’s hair.

        “I know. I know.” Victor held Henry’s hand over his heart. His heart beat. Both of theirs did.

        Henry’s body seized as someone knocked softly on the door. Victor wrapped his arms protectively around his shoulders as Alphonse entered with a pack of crackers and a bottle of gatorade. “Are you feeling any better?” He asked and Victor shook his head.

        “Bad dreams,” Victor said. Their voices dropped and Henry could tell he wasn’t supposed to hear, but he did anyway.

        “You need to eat,” Alphonse said.

        “No. He needs me.” Victor tried to push back.

        “You can’t help if you’re exhausted.”

        “But Dad--”

        “Eat. Then you can come back.”

        “You can’t banish me.”

        “You’ve been banished. Go.” Alphonse turned his attention back to Henry. “You should eat too. Just a little bit.”

        Henry held a cracker in his shaking hand and nibbled on it slowly. It tasted vaguely of cardboard and the common cold. He felt soft and exposed without Victor’s touch.

        “We talked a while ago about getting you a therapist--” Alphonse started.

        “No.”

        “No?”

        “No. I can’t do that again. I can’t! Not again!” Henry’s voice pitched into hysterics. He let Alphonse hold him against his chest. It wasn’t the same as Victor. The steady beating of his heart anchored him back to some sort of reality, but it was still the bad version where he was in pain and everyone hated him. 

        “What if we took you to someone you knew and trusted?” Alphonse asked, muffled by Henry’s hair.

        “I don’t trust anyone.”

        “What about Dr. Konig?” Alphonse asked; unable to keep the sadness from his voice. “You know him. You know how he is with Victor. Victor trusts him.”

        “That’s not allowed,” Henry muttered. “It’s against the rules.”

        “I think he might be able to make an exception for your...special circumstances.” Alphonse’s voice was supernaturally steady like a ghost’s

        “Do you really think so?” Henry asked.

        “Yes, I do.” Henry didn’t believe him, but hurting Alphonse was worse than anything Waldman had given to him.

        “I’ll try,” he conceded. Alphonse looked pleased and that’s all that mattered. He was still going to die anyway. Henry started to cry again and he didn’t really know why. “Can you hold me?”

        “Of course.” And Alphonse held him through his panic and tears.

 

* * *

 

        Victor turned over the jar in his hand. His toast was going cold and there were no knives left in this kitchen. He wasn’t exactly sure what his next step should be. Did he just pour the jelly? Would that work? Maybe this task would be easier to accomplish if he could feel his fingers but he couldn’t and everything in the room felt warped and inside out and backwards. Someone was talking in the next room over and the grating sound of a thick accent made him want to curl up in a ball and hide beneath the sink. Unfortunately, he was too tall to do that. He’d stopped being able to hide in the cupboards years ago.

        What was he doing again? Knife. No, not knife. Knives were bad and cold and steel, pressed against his chest and-

        Victor flipped the jelly over and banged the bottom. Focus. His dad had said he had to go eat but then he could go back and sit with Henry again and guard the door and hold him while he cried and screamed and looked blankly into the distance. Victor had a mission.

        As he shook the jar impatiently, his hands seemed to move in slow motion. He wasn’t even sure he was actually moving them. Grunting in frustration, Victor lifted the jar to throw it across the room before remembering that strawberry jam looked like blood when it splattered. He put the jar down carefully.

        Maybe he could just use his hands to spread the jam.

        Something dark moved out of the corner of his eye and Victor’s body seized like he was entering rigor mortis. He grabbed the nearest thing his scrambling hand could find and aimed it at the intruder.

        “Relax!” Ernest said, holding up his hands. “I’m unarmed. You can put down the toast.”

        Victor glanced to his hand in surprise and forced his fingers to release the bread back onto the plate. “Who’s talking?” He asked.

        “What do you mean?” Ernest was starting to look a little nervous, voice short and clipped even when filtered through the weird layer saran wrap coating Victor’s body.

        “Loud.” Victor said in elaboration. No, wait. That wasn’t coherent. “Who’s the person with the accent?”

        “That’s Jascha’s dad.”

        Dad. Jascha had a dad? Oh, that was right, they were coming today weren’t they? God, he was having such a hard time focusing. Had he even taken his meds today? What time was it? Focus. Dads. Jascha’s dad was here. Jascha’s dad was here and so was Ernest and neither of them knew how to lie properly about being in love.

        “Is he nice?” Victor asked Ernest seriously, already mentally mapping the best way to kill Jascha’s father if the answer was no. It would be harder to do without the knives in the kitchen, of course, but he could still poison him. Knives, knives, knives.

        “I…” Ernest scrutinized Victor as if he were reading his thoughts. “Yeah. Yeah, he’s very nice. I don’t think he entirely _gets it_ but, uh, he seemed to take things well. Jascha’s with him and his mom now. In the TV room.”

        “Good, good,” Victor said absently. Talking to Ernest helped him peel back the layers of wrongness coating his skin like a sheen of molting beetle skins. “Why aren’t you with them?”

        Ernest sighed, shoulders slumping. “They’re pretty inseparable at this point. Which,” he corrected his tone quickly, “I absolutely don’t blame them for. I just figured I should give them space for a little while. Go check on Henry.” He threw Victor a wary glance as he crossed the room to retrieve a cup from the cupboard. “Why aren’t you with him?”

        It was a reasonable question even if it sent shards of glass crawling down his spine. Victor didn’t leave Henry’s side when things got bad. Never had, even to the point of his own detriment, though his health didn’t matter at all. Or, maybe it did. He was pretty sure it didn’t. Things had never been this bad before.

        “Got banished,” Victor answered as he resumed banging on the jam container to no great avail. “Dad’s sitting with him and said I needed to eat so...”

        Ernest watched Victor shake the jam with knitted brows. “What are you doing?”

        “Jelly’s broken.”

        “No…” Ernest said slowly. “You need to use a knife to get it out.”

        “No knives,” Victor said, half statement, half declaration. He switched over to pounding the jar on the counter, the sound of thick glass striking marble raising an unholy din, but quickly found it missing from his hands. He stared at the space the jam should have been in concern.

        “Here.” Ernest slid the jar back in front of him. It now had a spoon stuck in it. Genius.

        Victor slathered a large spoonful of thick red muck on his cold toast. “Thank you.”

        “No problem.”

        As Victor set about devouring his food as fast as was humanly possible, Ernest skirted around him to finish fetching himself water. Victor frowned slightly as he took full stock of how tense his brother’s shoulders had become. Focus, focus. He cleared his throat and adopted his best imitation of comfort. “Henry’s going to be fine.” He said with all the confidence he didn’t feel. “We’re past the worst of it now, I’m sure.”

        Ernest bit his lip and leaned back against the counter. “Are you positive?” He finally asked. “Last night was...a lot.”

        “Yeah. But it’s okay. Really. Henry’s tough and we won’t let anything happen to him.” They wouldn’t let Henry hurt himself. Victor made sure to put an emphasis on the we, though he was unsure whether it was supposed to be a question or a conformation.

        Ernest seemed to understand, however, and his mouth drew into a thinner line. “Yeah, we won’t.” He said firmly before hesitating. “How are you doing?”

        Victor smiled without humor. “I’m not going to flip my shit.”

        “I wasn’t implying-”

        “Yes, you were.” Victor said sharp as a razor blade. Knives again. Victor squeezed his eyes closed and counted to ten. “Sorry,” he kept his tone neutral, “I’m...stressed.”

        “Yeah, I figured.” Ernest didn’t sound mad though his posture did not relax. “Did you, like, sleep at all last night?”

        “Henry kept having nightmares.” Victor took a bite of his toast. “Did you sleep?”

        “Barely. We were with William.” Ernest hesitated again, longer this time, weighing the pros and cons of whatever he was thinking. “I’m going to go see him after I check in with Dad and Henry. Did you want to come? It might do you good to take a rest. Maybe we could watch a movie or something? A TV show?” He grinned weakly. “Promise I won’t make you watch sports.”

        Victor crushed the panic clawing at his stomach lining, triggered by the mere thought of being separated from Henry, and tucked it into the farthest corner of his mind, neatly between the screaming fit he’d had on the flight back from Ingolstadt and the feeling of Jascha’s fist smashing through his nose. “No thank you.” Victor said, already feeling his mind switching itself back into the falsified calm he’d managed to manufacture in the last fourteen hours of listening to Henry cry and scream bloody murder. The feeling was returning to his fingers now and his vision seemed clearer already. He peeled the saran wrap from his face like a second layer of skin. “I should get back to Henry now.”

        “Okay,” Ernest said reluctantly. “I’ll walk with you.”

        Since they were passing the TV room, Ernest stopped off to let Jascha know where he was going. Victor hovered awkwardly in a corner of the room. He felt his pulse quicken minutely as he stole glances at Jascha’s parents, guilt already heavy on his temples as he watched Jascha’s mom press into Jascha’s side while his dad wrapped an arm around them both. Victor made himself look away as Jascha’s father narrowed suspicious eyes on him.

        “Ernest,” He said nervously.

        Ernest glanced over to him then back to Jascha’s parents. “Sorry.” he smiled apologetically, “We need to get going.”

        “Of course,” Jascha said, obviously conflicted as to whether he should follow. He took his mom’s hand.

        “I’ll let you know how Henry is,” Ernest assured him. He paused as he followed Jascha’s dad’s line of sight to Victor, silently sizing up the staring contest between the two. “Uh. Dr. Simonis, my brother, Victor.”

        Dr. Simonis’ face did not break, remaining completely unreadable even as he nodded. “Nice to meet you,” he said, accent thick enough to be painful to Victor’s overwrought ears.

        Doctor? Wasn’t he a musician? Victor swallowed hard as he tried to pick out any tell or indication of emotion visible on the man’s Dr. Simonis’ handsome face. There was absolutely nothing. It was like trying to read Arabic upside down and drunk. Victor took a step back as Dr. Simonis stood and extended a hand. He was even taller than Jascha, which Victor didn’t think was possible, looming over him with giant-like ease. His brief glimpse of the man at the UChicago morgue hadn’t prepared him.

        Victor examined at Dr. Simonis’ hand without taking it. “Nice to meet you to,” he finally managed to squeak out. He shook the man’s hand, noting his firm grip.

        “You look familiar,” Dr. Simonis said without prompting.

        “No I don’t,” Victor said, too quickly to be believable.

        “Yes you do.” Dr. Simonis overrode him smoothly.

        “Nope. I’m a shut in. I’ve never left this house.” Victor took a step back and made a show of glancing to his non-existent watch. “In fact, I really must be going now. If I stay in the sunlight too long, I might go blind.” With the dexterity of an elderly, three legged dog, Victor dodged around Dr. Simonis and grabbed Ernest’s wrist. “Pleasure to meet you.” He smiled politely at a stony Ms. Simonis before fleeing the room.

        “Well,” Ernest said dryly once they were a respectable distance from the Simonis family. “You handled that fabulously.”

        “Shut up, I panicked,” Victor panted, leaning against the wall outside of his and Henry’s room. “He’s tall.”

        “He is.” Ernest looked slightly amused. “How much you wanna bet he’s already figured out where he knows you from.”

        “Your boyfriend probably already told him,” Victor complained. Behind the door, he could hear his dad speaking softly to Henry and Victor’s heart constricted to a pin needle. Henry was crying again.

        Without waiting for Ernest, Victor pushed open the door and moved to the bed, letting Henry fall into his arms. The devastating effects of his last nightmare had lessened to a shudder but Henry still seemed so fragile, so breakable, so small in his grasp. Like a sheet of glass, something he could shatter with the simplest touch. Or thrust of steel. “I ate,” He told his dad flatly. Threateningly. “Don’t make me leave again.”

        His dad blinked and exchanged an unreadable look with Ernest as Henry shifted against him. “Victor.” The other strained through his raw vocal chords, apparently still of enough mind to register Victor’s tone.

        “Sorry,” Victor corrected automatically before tuning Ernest and his dad out completely. He scooted back on the bed and took Henry’s face into his hands, stroking his cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Nothing’s going to hurt you,” he repeated the night’s reigning mantras. “Everything’s going to be okay. I’m here and nothing bad’s going to happen.”

        “Something bad has already happened,” Henry said, dizzing exhaustion evident in every syllable.

        “Then nothing bad is going to happen from here on out. Never again.”

        “Okay,” Henry agreed quietly and in a way that meant he didn’t believe Victor at all. As his lover gave his attention to Ernest and Dad, Victor buried his face into greasy hair and imagined pushing all his warmth into Henry till he was as cold as a corpse.

        He’d come back to life once he knew for sure that Henry could hold onto his own.

 

* * *

 

        “Who’s Henry?” Jascha’s mother asked as he settled back onto the couch with her.

        “My friend,” Jascha said.

        “Is something wrong with him?” His father tapped Jascha’s knees lightly and he moved them so that his father could sit as well. Once settled, Jascha draped them back over his lap.

        “Yes,” Jascha said quietly. He wasn’t sure if this was one of those things where it was so bad that it was okay to tell other people, or if he should stay quiet about it.

        “What happened?” His mom asked, toying with his hair.

        “I…” Jascha hesitated. He wished he could ask Henry for his permission. “It’s very bad. I don’t know if he’d want me to talk about it.” Jascha sighed. “Maybe we should go back to the apartment. I don’t want to cause him stress.”

        “No,” his mother said with shocking firmness. He looked up at her, then to his father.

        “Why not?” Jascha’s brow furrowed.

        “I’m not letting you into another car,” his mom said bitterly.

        “Mom…” Jascha couldn’t bring himself to fight her on it. Not now, at least. They’d only been back together as a family again for what? Five hours, at most? That was barely a scratch against whatever hellscape of grief they must have been living in since the end of October.

        “Ah,” his father said suddenly. Both Jascha and his mother looked at him. “I remember where I saw that skinny boy. Ernest’s brother.” Jascha felt his mother’s hands grow still.

        “Don’t say it,” she said through her teeth, an unfamiliar venom in her voice.

        “I won’t.” His father patted her arm lightly. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

        Jascha had conveniently blocked from his memory the fact that Victor deliberately appeared at the morgue to watch his parent’s get informed that their son’s body was MIA, along with as much of the rest of the things Victor said during his massive breakdown.

        “Do you want to go practice together?” Jascha said quietly, looking up at his mom. “The piano here is really nice.”

        “I would love to,” she said warmly. “You have a violin here?”

        “Yeah,” Jascha said. “Alphonse found one I can use.”

        “Alphonse is Ernest’s father?” His dad asked. They really hadn’t gotten the chance to be introduced to everyone, since, well. It wasn’t safe to leave Henry unattended, and Victor was probably within reach of a meltdown of his own.

        “Mhm,” Jascha nodded as he sat up. He held out his hand and was happy when his mom took it. “He’s very nice. He’s helped to take care of me.”

        All three of them walked to the music room. Jascha worked very hard to hide his excitement as his mother took her seat at the piano bench. She warmed up with etudes and snippets of various other exercises that she made up for herself while Jascha stared pleadingly at his father as he looked at the violin.

         _“Dad, I want to play it,”_ Jascha said quietly.

         _“Shh, I want to look at it,”_ his father said as he took out a small flashlight from his pocket, shining it inside the instrument. _“I studied this craftsmen back in school. This is a very expensive instrument.”_ He tuned it for him; something he hadn’t done since Jascha was very little; handed it back to him. “It’s sound post is a little bit out of place. Finish practicing, and then I’ll fix it.”

        Jascha took the instrument and stood beside his mother. “What do you want to play?”

        “Oh, anything.” his mother smiled. “Brahms, maybe? Do you still remember the Prokofiev sonata we learned a few years ago?”

        “Let’s do Brahms,” Jascha smiled. It was good and technically difficult, also one of his long-time favorites to play with his mom. It would be hard on his hands, but it was short enough that he’d manage.

        The familiarity of the piece was most of what made it so special. It was his first real project when he was starting out as a violinist back when he was five, even though his teacher said it might be too difficult. It hadn’t been, and it was always his comfort piece.

        If playing the Bruch had required minimal thought, the Brahms took even less. It was practically a part of his childhood, considering the incalculable number of times he and his mother had played it. His fingers found their mark with each phrase almost entirely without him thinking about it, save for the phrasing and emotion of the piece. He let the room around him turn soft, focusing only on the sound of the music and his mother’s face as she played.

        It was one of their best performances by far. The soft sections were gentler than they’d ever been before, and the dramatic sections more victorious. The violin sang true, even with its evidently crooked sound post, and the piano showed its full worth under his mother’s hands. Jascha hoped that Henry could hear it. Music helped make everything hurt less, in his experience. Sure, Henry had no idea who Jascha’s parents were, but maybe if he and his mother played enough music he’d understand that they would be here for him just as Alphonse was.

        When they reached the finale of the piece, Jascha basked in the final phrases. His hands ached a little from the effort, but not as badly as they did yesterday. When he looked to his mother, he saw that she was crying.

        “Mom?” Jascha said gently, sitting beside her on the bench. She smiled at him and wiped her eyes quickly.

        “I’m alright, sweetheart,” she said gently, pulling him into a hug. She rested her ear against his chest again, listening to his heart beat. “I never thought I’d play that piece again.”

        Jascha pressed his cheek against the top of her head, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. She sat up and cupped his face in her hands.

        “It’s not your fault,” she said firmly. She stroked his hair out of his face, running her fingers along the side of his cheek. “I’m just happy that you’re okay.”

        Jascha looked over his shoulder, surprised not to see his father in the room. “Where did Dad go?” He asked.

        “I’m here.” His father walked back into the room. “I set up the dining room table. Did you know that there isn’t a basement workshop in this house?”

        “I don’t really think Alphonse would use one…” Jascha said quietly, standing up and handing his father the violin. “Did you really bring all your tools here?”

        “Yes,” his father said easily. “I was not sure how long we would stay, and I have work I want to do.”

        “A restoration?” Jascha asked.

        “Yes,” his father actually smiled at him. “It’s a surprise.”

        “Surprise?” Jascha hated those. But if it was a violin related surprise, maybe it was okay.

        “Yes. It’s a good one.” his father gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “If you need me or my assistant, come to the dining room.”

        “Assistant?” Jascha cocked his head slightly.

        “He says his name is William,” his father said easily. “He looked sad, and wanted to know who I was and what I was doing, so I offered him a job. He should be done setting out the table canvas and my tools by now.”

        “You met William?” Jascha asked, smiling a bit despite his concern. William hadn’t wanted to get up this morning. Perhaps Ernest coaxed him out.

        “Yes,” His father nodded. “Did you know that he refers to you as ‘Uncle Jascha’?”

        Jascha blushed. “Yeah.”

        “I told him to wait to call you that until you marry into the family,” his father said plainly. Jascha didn’t think he was joking, but he was unsure. “He seems like a good kid,” he added.

        “He is,” Jascha smiled.

        “Mr. Lukas,” William jogged into the room. His father looked at him. “I set up the table, like you asked.” William and Jascha both barely had time to react as his mother descended upon the kid.

        “Oh, you’re so cute!” She said happily. “You look so much like Ernest!”

        “Um, hello,” William said, suddenly shy. “Are you Uncle Jascha’s mom?”

        “Uncle Jascha?” She laughed. Jascha blushed as his mother turned to grin at him. She returned her gaze to William. “Yes, I am. You can call me Kassia.”

        “Come, William,” his father said firmly, placing a hand on William’s shoulder. They looked very silly side by side, since his dad was more than a foot taller than him. “She needs to practice the piano, and you need to learn how to fix a tilted sound post.”

        “Okay,” William smiled despite the dark circles under his eyes. He looked back to Jascha and his mother. “You’re really good at music.”

        “Thank you, sweetheart,” his mother smiled, tousling William’s curls. “Your glasses are crooked,” she said as she fixed them. “There. Now you’re ready to go help Lukas.”

        “Thanks, Ms. Kassia!” William grinned, apparently recovered from whatever shyness he felt minutes ago. He followed Jascha’s dad back to the dining room, and Jascha smiled as he heard William asking him how to say different things in Russian or Lithuanian. Whatever intimidation his father tended to exert, William seemed immune.

        Jascha smiled as his mother kissed him on the cheek when she returned to the piano bench. “Would you like to hear the piece I was working on before we left for Russia?”

        “Yes, please,” Jascha said quietly.

        “It’s Beethoven,” she said, settling her fingers back against the keys. “I’ll be doing a recording of the Hammerklavier in a month or so.”

        “His 29th sonata? That’s the hard one, right?” Jascha said, hugging one of his knees to his chest.

        “Yes.” His mother smiled. “It is rather fun, though,” she added affectionately. “Here, listen.” She took a deep breath, and started. Beethoven was always a bit intense for Jascha, but he loved hearing it played.

        Sure enough, the first movement was huge and dense and quiet probably loud enough to be heard clearly from the attic, but for all its difficult his mother didn’t miss a single note. It felt like being back at home, when she’d practice from exactly 5PM to 8PM because any earlier or later would irritate the neighbors. Jascha wanted to lean on her shoulder, but that would stifle her hands. He closed his eyes, relishing the complete oasis of normal his parents gave him in the midst of the pain and chaos of Henry’s crisis.

        Jascha’s eyes opened as he felt a hand on his back. He looked up in surprise, beaming as Ernest gave him a tired smile. He scooched a little closer to his mom, letting Ernest perch at the edge of the bench. He held Jascha’s arm, leaning his weight against him as he closed his eyes. Jascha glanced to his mother, who gave him a smile as she continued into the second movement. With her approval, he kissed Ernest’s forehead and squeezed his hand. This was basically all he could have wanted; his parent’s approval, his mother playing piano while he held Ernest. It was so much more than just a romantic daydream now. It was real, and it would stay real.


	51. Dissonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry takes a bath. Victor watches TV. Jascha gets his surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you so much for reading our fic! We always love hearing what you have to say about it! 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter include: mentions of suicide and mentions of past abuse

        “You need to take a shower.” Victor rubbed Henry’s back as he clutched a pillow to his chest. “I promise it’ll help you feel better.” Henry shook his head against the pillow.“

         “I can’t move.” And it was true. Henry hadn’t really moved in almost two days. Inch by inch, feeling had returned to him. Now, he could comfortably empathize with Alphonse and Victor and it was so much worse. The worry and fear and sadness came off of them in nauseating waves. And it was all his fault.

         “Can you shower if I help you?” Victor’s fingers lingered over the base of his neck.

         Henry shook his head again and held the pillow harder against his chest like it was the only thing that could save him.

        “Please, Henry.” Victor lay pressed against his back. “Doesn’t it sound nice?”

        “I don’t deserve nice things.” Henry could not possibly curl himself into a tighter ball if he tried. He felt Victor get out of bed and go through his dresser.

        “Yes, you do. Up.” Victor set the pile of clothes aside and began the task of loosening Henry’s grip.

        He felt like he would never be able to straighten his arms again. How he could even bear to touch him was completely beyond comprehension. “What if I see people?” Henry asked.

        “Then you’ll say hi and you can talk to them after you’ve washed your hair.” Victor hooked Henry’s arm over his shoulder.

        “I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

        “Not even William?”

        That was a fair point. He needed to apologize a hundred million times for the days-worth of terrible things he had brought upon this house. He needed to tell William not to worry and that he will be okay again once everything stopped hurting. “I can talk to William.”

        “Okay, then you need to take a shower because William is downstairs and so are Jascha’s parents.” Victor began to lift Henry to his feet.

        “I will be clean,” he repeated under his breath. “I deserve to be clean.”

        “You do deserve to be clean,” Victor whispered back.

        Victor sat Henry on the edge of the bathtub as he started to fill it up with warm water. Henry could already feel the heat of it wafting away from the faucet. It was soft and clung to his skin like velvet or felt. He leaned against Victor’s shoulder and closed his eyes. No. That was a bad idea. She was still there. Henry would just have to accept the fact that he would never sleep again.

        “You’re okay, I’ve got you,” Victor whispered. He ran his hand through the water until he was satisfied with its temperature and turned to Henry. “Do you want me to help you get undressed?” he asked.

        “I…” Henry folded his arms over his chest before forcing himself to uncurl. “I think I need help.”

        Victor kissed his forehead and gracelessly pulled off his shirt. It felt strange to have something other than that fabric touching his skin. The air itself itched and burned.

        “Stand?” Victor asked as he started to help Henry take off his jeans and boxers.

        Henry turned away and closed his eyes; shame creeping into his cheeks. “I’m sorry you have to look at me.”

        “Why? You look good. You’ll look even better once you’re clean.” Victor grabbed a nearby towel and helped Henry get into the water.

        He wasn’t expecting for his muscles to relax so completely. It was a little too hot and his pale skin turned pink and then to red, but he didn’t want to bother Victor so he didn’t say anything. He did deserve it after all.

        Parallels. Henry closed his eyes and tilted his head back as Victor poured the warm water over his hair. He placed his hand above his eyes and his skin was warmer still.

        “My shampoo,” Victor paused for a second. “Or Lizzie’s? It might be William’s. I can’t tell.”

        “You always smell like wood,” Henry muttered as he focused on the feeling of Victor's hand on his forehead.

        “Do you like the smell of wood?” Victor asked.

        “I like it when you smell like wood--”

        “But you would prefer something else.” Victor pressed a kiss to his temple and he smiled. “What about lavender and vanilla?”

        “Sure,” Henry sighed. “Lizzie’s?”

        “Or William’s. It really is impossible to tell the difference,” Victor giggled and Henry felt himself crack the tiniest smile. 

        Victor squeezed a dollop of shampoo into his hands and gently worked it through Henry’s hair. He was acutely aware of how his hair stuck together and felt generally disgusting in his lover’s hands. “You don’t have to--” he tried to mutter before Victor shushed him.

        “I want to. May I please take care of you?” He asked. Henry nodded and he continued with his work. “You know, your skin looks way better. Have your ribs been bothering you?”

        Henry had to take a second to think. He hadn’t really noticed. “I think it’s fine. I haven’t really felt anything in a while.”

        Victor ran his hand over the side with the faintest hint of bruising still left. Henry was torn between wanting desperately to lean into his touch or to jump away, so he didn’t do anything. “Feel okay?” Victor asked.

        “Yeah, yeah. It’s fine,” Henry kept his eyes closed. Victor hummed his approval and put another round of shampoo through his hair. “There you go,” he whispered. “All clean. Body?”

        Henry nodded and allowed himself to sink deeper into the water. Victor ran the soapy washcloth over his chest and stomach. The touch was so tender and loving and Henry didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve it at all.

        “Hey, hey.” Victor soothed. “No crying, it’s okay. What’s wrong?”

        “You’re nice to me.” Henry’s voice sounded pathetic. He wished it would just stop.

        “Of course I’m nice to you. I love you.” Victor gently pulled Henry’s leg from the water and started cleaning. He felt his lover’s thumb massage the tension out of his quadriceps.

        “If you didn’t love me, then I could go away.”

        “Then I’ll just keep loving you forever, won’t I?” Victor kissed him again. “I don’t want you to...go away.”

        “I’m sorry I keep doing this to you. I know it’s hard.” Henry tried to make his voice sound even, but it didn’t work.

        “Yeah, but it’s hard for you too. You can tell me how you feel.” Victor placed the washcloth over the faucet. “I want to be able to help you.”

        “I feel bad. Like I’m a burden on you and Alphonse and William and everyone. I feel like...it’s my fault. If I hadn’t wished…” he trailed away.

        “There’s nothing you could have done,” Victor said. “We love you so much. It’s not your fault she couldn’t cope. You can. We’re going to help you.”

        “I’m going to go see Dr. Konig in a couple days,” Henry said without thinking.

        “Konig? But that’s...I didn’t think...”

        “He’s breaking the rules for me.”

        Victor laughed. “He’s breaking the rules for my dad. He's ‘practically funding his kid’s college career’ and all that. Still, I’m surprised.”

        “I can’t handle anyone I don’t already trust. I can’t handle someone else like--”

        “Don’t say his name. He’s not allowed here. Ever.” Victor let his hands fall over Henry’s stomach before helping him into a sitting position. “I’m glad you’re getting help. Real help. The kind that actually…you know...helps.”

        It was a task to get Henry out of the bathtub. He didn’t have the best coordination because his limbs were drunk with heat. Victor did manage to sit him on the toilet and begin to blow-dry his hair.

        “I don’t understand the point of this.” Henry said, cringing as the hot air blew over his ears.

        “Your hair will be fluffy,” Victor said like it explained everything in the world. After, he slipped a navy blue sweater with a red stripe over Henry’s head and helped him into a pair of nice, but stretchy pants. They wouldn’t be a problem if he managed to fall asleep in them again. “To William?” Victor asked as he slid Henry’s glasses on his nose.

        “To William.”

        Henry did not expect to find William running around a makeshift...carpentry shop? Henry didn’t even know what this was. There were two violins on a table and about a dozen super specific tools floating between William and a man with a very thick Russian accent.

        It took William about three seconds to notice him standing in the doorway. “Uncle Henry!” He yelled as he wrapped his arms around Henry’s torso. “I was so worried about you, but you’re here and you’re alive and not dead and I’m so happy.” Henry smiled into the top of his head as he heard Beethoven floating from the room behind him. Hammerklavier, if he remembered correctly.

        “There’s another one,” the Russian man said without introduction. “You look like you’ve been hit by a bus.”

        “I..ummm.” Henry pressed his fingers self consciously into the dark skin underneath his eyes. “I’m Henry?” He didn’t know why it came out like a question.

        “Henry. The one with the problems.” His eyes pierced through Henry’s soul and into the void. There was absolutely no expression in his face or voice. He grabbed Victor’s hand.

        “Are you his boy mistress? He also looks like he’s been hit by a bus.” The man pulled out a chair for him to sit. Henry felt, for the first time since that weird date-thing with Walton, that he had reentered the twilight zone.

        Henry took the seat and Victor stood protectively behind him. “Who are you, exactly?” Henry asked.

        “Oh, forgive me. I have no manners when I’m working. I’m Lukas Simonis. Jascha’s father. This is my assistant, William.” Lukas stretched out his hand and Henry took it, still a little in shock.

        “Assistant?” he asked.

        “I have taught him how to fix the soundpost. He is a very fast learner.”

        “Uhhh, yeah. I guess he is,” Henry smiled. Fixing a soundpost. Nice.

        “Anyway. I digress. Boy mistress or no?”

        “Yes?” Henry asked. “He’s my partner.”

        “So you are like my Jascha. Very good. He has lots of friends.” Lukas sat down next to them. “I can talk to Henry alone, yes?” he asked, directed at Victor.

        “If he wants to be left alone, then sure.” Henry could feel the underlying stress prick under his words. Victor seemed like he wanted out.

        “Yeah, I’ll be okay.” Henry flashed him a small smile.

        “I’ll talk to Dad for a bit and then see you upstairs.” As Victor walked away Henry considered kissing him, but thought better of it. William followed him out.

        Once the door was closed, Lukas focused all of his attention on Henry. “What is wrong with you?” he asked, not unkindly, but the wording made Henry afraid. “Jascha said it was bad and did not tell us. Jascha never holds anything back.”

        “I...I don’t…” Henry sighed. This might as well happen. Maybe it would make it easier when he finally talked to Konig. “It’s bad.”

        “I grew up in the USSR. Everything was bad. You cannot scare me.” Lukas was easily a full six inches taller than Henry. Almost no one was taller than Henry. 

        “Where should I start?” Henry hoped he sounded less miserable than he looked.

        “The beginning.”

        So Henry did and Lukas looked at him with absolutely no facial expression. It would have been unnerving if it weren't so comforting.

        “If he ever shows his face to you again, call me and I will break it,” Lukas deadpanned, referencing Lawrence. “Only evil men beat children and I do not tolerate evil men.”  
“But it’s my fault he hurt my mother and my fault she killed herself. I’m just as bad,” he hung his head miserably.

        “No, you are good and sweet and Jascha cares about you. Jascha doesn’t care about evil people,” Lukas reassured him. “You will be okay. Bad things happen, but the world keeps moving on, yes? There are good things. What do you do?”

        “I’m a poet. I study Walt Whitman...and I write sometimes, but I’m pretty bad,” Henry fiddled with his fingers.

        “I don’t know this Whitman. Do you know the Russian existentialists?”

        “Yes, but they make me sad.”

        “They are supposed to make you sad,” it almost seemed like Lukas laughed. “But maybe they aren’t good for you in your current state. Think of your work and the people you love. Healing will come, it can just be difficult sometimes. There is always tomorrow and it might not be as terrible.”

 

* * *

 

         “Why does Dr. Simonis scare you?” William clung to Victor’s heels as he strode from the room. “He’s really nice.”

        “He’s, like, the size of an ocean liner and has the expression range of a slab of tofu.” Victor said bitterly.

        “No he doesn’t.” William said. “You’re just bad at emotions and insecure.”

        Victor turned around and poked a finger into William’s chest. “Who asked for your opinion, kid?”

        “No one, but it looked like you needed it.” William said airily. His pleased expression, however, quickly lapsed back into worry. “He wasn’t lying, right?”

        “Lying?” Victor asked.

        “Uncle Henry. He smiled when I said I was glad he was alive and Ernest says he’s going to be fine. You aren’t all lying to me, are you?” William scrutinized Victor closely. “Because you’ve lied to me before.”

        Victor sighed. “No one’s lying to you this time, William. Henry will be fine. He’s, uh, he’s Hector, remember. He’s made of tougher stuff.”

        William frowned. “Yeah…” He said reluctantly. “I just don’t know what I would do if we lost Dad. I wish Henry wasn’t having to go through this.”

        Victor sometimes forgot that William didn’t remember the aftermath of their mother’s death. Of course he wouldn’t; he was, like, an actual infant, but still. “It’s…” He intended to say something along the lines of ‘it wouldn’t be the same thing, our dad is a good person and Meredith was a sack of shit’ but that probably wouldn’t be helpful for a twelve-year-old to hear. “It’s very hard but he’ll get through it. And he has all of us. He has you.” Victor summoned a smile he could only hope looked real. “Henry loves you a lot.”

        William nodded, still looking thoroughly despondent. “I know.” He shot a mournful glance back towards the converted dining room. “How long do you think it will be till I can go back? Dr. Simonis promised he would show me how to replace violin backing next.”

        “Don’t know.” Victor said. He honestly wanted to know the answer to that too. Although they’d passed two successful days without incident, Victor was still desperate to stay by Henry’s side until well...ideally until the man learned to accept that he was the most perfect human being who had ever lived but Victor would also take basic self-confidence at this point. Even if Henry seemed to be getting there, Victor knew a successful facade when he saw one. He couldn’t believe he missed it before. How little had he been paying attention? Or, more accurately, how little had he cared?

        It didn’t matter now, he supposed. Victor had already decided that, unless Henry asked him to, he was never leaving his lover’s side again. Did that make him sound psychotic? Probably. Did Victor care? Not in the least.

        Victor scratched his hand absently as he debated whether or not to actually follow through on finding his dad. He wasn’t sure if the man was still working or not, trying to catch up on a month of missed paperwork. Maybe he should just hang out with William until Henry emerged from the musician's lion den.

        “Hey, isn’t that Henry’s dad?” William’s concerned voice broke through his musings.

        “What?” Victor was on high alert in a snap as he turned to see William standing in front of the television, holding the remote loosely in one hand. As Victor walked over to stand behind him, William turned up the volume.

        “-a terrible tragedy. And so unexpected.” A young woman holding a microphone stood in a small crowd of chairs and pressed suits. The small pin on her breast flashed the logo for CNN. “Do you have any idea what could have prompted it?”

        The camera angle changed and Senator Lawrence Clerval filled the screen. Without thinking, Victor grabbed William’s shoulders as if drag him back before common sense kicked in. “I know what caused this to happen.” Lawrence’s voice positively dripped with sympathies and, as the press looked on, he wiped a tear from his cheek. Victor could feel his blood boiling even as he went stiff. She’d done it, then. Meredith had actually, truly gone through with it. Even if he’d known, it was still somehow shocking to hear; a conformation with the reality and weight of the situation.

        The camera flashed back to another reporter. “Would you be willing to share the details of what occurred?” The tackless older man asked.

        “No.” Lawrence said firmly. “This is a private affair. It will be dealt with among family.” As he said the word family, his face seemed to bridge into something unreadable and for the briefest of moments, he looked sad. Like, honestly sad, exhaustion and despair warring across his features, and it threw Victor for a loop as he tried to conform the break of character into his world view.

        “And what about your son?” A third reporter chimed in. “As I’m sure you know, the article-”

        “I’m aware of the article.” Lawrence’s voice cut through the reporter’s smooth as ice and twice as deadly. Victor tightened his hold on William’s shoulders as Lawrence’s act broke again to reveal a flicker of fury, invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking for it. “Rest assured, the situation is being handled as we speak.”

        “What’s he talking about?” William whispered to Victor.

        “I-” Victor bit himself off as yet another reporter stood.

        “These are some serious allegations, Senator Clerval.” The reporter stressed as she pushed her microphone forward. “Allegations made directly against your character. Surely you would like to comment and dissuade any assumptions made?”

        Lawrence sighed, leaning against the podum. “The relationship between my wife and son has been fraught for some years. I take his unfounded accusations as a reflection of that distress. But, as I said,” he stared directly at the reporter, “this is a family affair. It is not the time for questions and accusations now, it is a time for grief. Thank you all for your time today.”

        Both William and Victor remained silent as Senator Clerval stepped back from the podum, adjusted his tie, and walked back. A volley of camera flashes and reporter buzz followed him but was quickly cut off as they switched back to the studio.

        “Well, there you have it.” The finely dressed woman on screen said. “For those just joining us, that was a press conference with Senator Lawrence Clerval, discussing the recent suicide of his wife, Meredith Clerval. An unexpected-”

        Victor snatched the remote out of William’s hand and clicked the television off. As the screen returned to black, it reflected two scared faces against a dark backdrop.

        “Victor?” William asked again. “What was he talking about? What did he mean by ‘deal with it?’”

        “I…” The words felt cottony and thick in his throat. “I have no clue.”

        “And why was he acting like he was still talking to Henry?” William continued on angrily. “Henry’s ours now, not his.”

        “I don’t know, William.” Victor’s mind felt like it was running a mile a minute and then some. “He was probably just trying to keep up appearances. He’s a politician.”

        “He’s trash.” William declared passionately. “He didn’t even look properly sad that his wife is dead.”

        “Yeah, well...we all know he’s a heartless bastard.” Victor forced himself to loosen his white knuckled grasp William’s shoulders as he turned him around. “Hey, William, why don’t you go check back in with Dr. Simonis? He and Henry have been talking for a few minutes now. He’ll probably have something for you to do.”

        William gawked at him. “But what about Henry’s dad? We need to tell him!”

        “We will.” Victor assured him. “Later. I’m going to talk to Dad about it first. No need to freak Henry out if this is nothing.” The last thing Henry needed to hear after spending the last few days drowning in sorrow was a fresh shot of mortal terror, after all. Victor gave William’s shoulders a light shove. “Go.”

        “But!”

        “Now.” Victor said firmly, already speed walking towards his father’s office. As he moved further from William, any pretence of calm he’d collected seemed to shed off. He didn’t bother knocking as he flung his dad’s office door open, thoroughly startling the man.

        “Victor, what’s-”

        “Do we own any guns?”

        His dad’s face took on a new sheen of panic. “Oh god, not you too.”

        “No, no,” Victor insisted, “not for that.” He closed the office door behind him and leaned forward over the desk. “Guess who was just on TV?”

        His dad blinked for a second before his mouth caved in on itself. “So she really did it then?” He asked softly.

        “Apparently so.” Victor said dismissively. “There was a press conference.”

        His dad took a deep breath before looking up to meet Victor’s eyes. The anguish in his own shone through clearly. “How-”

        “-did she kill herself? Don’t know, don’t care. I have no sympathy for the frigid bitch.” Victor snapped. “No, I was more focused on the part of the press where Lawrence said he ‘knew what caused’ his wife to pull the trigger and claimed he was going to take care of it.”

        Victor watched as understanding emerged. His father clenched his jaw. “He was probably covering his ass.” He said harshly. “I mean, what else was he supposed to say? ‘I drove my wife to kill herself?’”

        Under any other circumstances, Victor would have been thrown off by the sudden venom in his father’s voice but this was Lawrence they were talking about. “I don’t like this, Dad.” He stressed. “I know you said he wouldn’t come here but-”

        “He won’t.”

        “Dad-”

        “Victor.” His dad said, apparently switched back from vengeance-brain to reassuring-parent-brain if the tone of his voice was any indication. “He won’t come here. Henry is safe with us. Lawrence will not risk such a scandal as I can bring down on his head.”

        “For god’s sake,” Victor snarled, “can you stop thinking like a lawyer for five seconds! This isn’t about his image, this about the fact that he’s a narcissistic, violent monster with all the proper motivations. Take it from someone who knows.” Victor leaned farther over the desk separating him from his father. “You think I was thinking consequences all those times I tried to kill Ernest as a kid? You think I gave half a damn about the rest of my life when I tried to stab my ex-boyfriend in Ingolstadt? You really think I was sharpening a knife, reflecting on whether or not I would regret what I was doing? No, I was angry and I was hurting and I wanted to make sure everyone else around me hurt too.” He met his dad’s frightened eyes with every bit of intensity he could muster. “I wanted to make them pay for what they’d done to me. And so does Lawrence.”

        His dad recovered at an impressive rate and stood. Walking around the desk, he grabbed each of Victor’s shoulders and steered him down into a seat. Victor barely resisted the urge to tear his hand away. “It’s not the same thing.” His dad said. “You’re not...you’ve never done anything premeditated.”

        “Neither has Lawrence.”

        “Yes, he has.” His dad insisted. “He made the choice to abuse-”

        “No, he didn’t.” Victor knew he was right without thinking it through. “He’s angry and one day, he let that anger go too far. Then it became a habit, which became something he needed to hide, which made everything worse.” He pressed his hands into the arms of the chair hard enough to hurt. “I know. I know how this works. I know how this feels. And Lawrence just lost his wife.”

        His dad paused before drawing back. “I…” He eyed Victor in a way which he very much did not like and Victor felt his stomach drop out as he realized he may have pushed just a bit too far.

        “I’m not losing it.” Victor said with all the earnestness he could muster, though the final result sounded more like desperation. “Dad, I’m not-”

        “I think,” his dad spoke over him, “that the last few days have been very tough on all of us. You especially.” The pity in his gaze was beyond sickening. “Your paranoia-”

        “I’m not paranoid!” Victor yelled. Fuck. Another point detracted from his believability.

        His father’s mouth grew to a firm line and he set a hand on Victor’s shoulder. “Lawrence would not dare to come here. Henry is safe with us.” He hesitated. “And I want you to stay in my office for a few hours.”

        “Absolutely not.” Victor felt the panic tingle his finger tips, a rippling wave. “You can’t separate me from Henry.”

        “Just for a few hours.” His dad said comfortingly. “There are plenty of other people to stay with Henry in the meantime.”

        “You don’t get to put me under fucking house arrest again just because you’re scared of me.” Victor tried to mold his tone into anything other than terrified. “I’m not crazy. This is not another episode.”

        “I know it’s not. But it’s been less than two weeks since your last breakdown and the stress of this incident-”

        “Isn’t effecting me. Not badly enough to justify locking me up.”

        “I’m not locking you up, Victor.” His dad said tiredly. “I’m just trying to protect all my children. Please stay here? Just for an hour or two.”

        Victor glared. “And if I don’t.” He challenged, already trying to run through all the effective threats he could deliver against his father. None of them would work, of course, and the worst would trigger actual consequences. He’d boxed himself in again.

        “Fine.” Victor walked behind the desk and plopped down in his dad’s high backed chair. “Two hours?”

        “Two hours.” His dad confirmed. The relief in his slumped shoulders was palpable. “And I’ll keep an eye on Henry the whole time.”

        “Fabulous.” Victor kicked a hefty volume of poison into his voice. “You better keep him safe.”

        “I will.” His dad said. He leaned forward and tousled Victor’s hair, presumably to prove he wasn’t terrified of his son after all. “Be back.”

        “Whatever.”

        As soon as he left, Victor dragged the chair around to face the office clock. He’d promised two hours, nothing more, nothing less, and he was holding his dad to that. As Victor tracked the seconds hand, he picked at his finger beds.

 

* * *

 

        “Mom,” Jascha said, diligently focusing on not slicing off his fingers with the contraband knife his father snuck into the house so that they could actually cook something rather than living solely on foods that required no preparation. “I want to know about the violin.”

        “It’s a surprise,” she smiled, not looking at him. Suddenly the potatoes she was cutting were very interesting, and consumed her attention entirely. “What’s wrong with Henry?”

        “I can’t tell you,” Jascha frowned at the carrots. “Please stop asking. Lying to you requires a lot of work and I’m bad at it.”

        “Ernest, what’s wrong with Henry?” Both Jascha and Ernest looked at her.

        “Mom, leave him alone. Dad’s trying to teach him chess,” Jascha said. His father had been forced to clean off the dining room table, so now he was bored.

        “It’s okay,” Ernest smiled. “Your dad was winning.”

        “Lukas is quite good at chess,” his mom smiled, returning to cutting up vegetables for the stew. “Jascha, sweetheart, please watch your hands while you cut the carrots.”

        “Yes, Mom,” Jascha sighed, looking away from Ernest.

        “Check mate.” Jascha heard Ernest groan as he lost the third round in a row.

        “I’m just worried about him,” she said. “We’ve been here for two days and I haven’t seen Henry once. Is he eating enough?”

        “Victor brings him food,” Ernest said quietly.

        “Is he sleeping?”

        “I don’t know,” Ernest said sadly.

        “I would not worry too much about him,” his father said calmly. “He’s been through a lot, but he will be fine.”

        You talked to him?” Jascha could hear the slight twinge of jealousy in his mother’s voice. “Did he come downstairs?”

        “Yes, while you were practicing,” his father said easily. “He came down with Victor and distracted William from our work.”

         Jascha glanced to his mother at the mention of Victor’s name. Even he couldn’t miss the obvious grimace. It wasn’t so much hatred as it was the bad taste of the memory, from what he could pick up on. He’d spent most of his time for the past two days with his parents, even to the point of sleeping with them in their bed on the first night. His mother had awoken twice in the night, crying from a nightmare of what he could only assume was the reality she’d lived in since the accident.

         “Jascha, carrots,” he heard her say. He handed her the bowl of sliced vegetables, which she dumped into the pot. “There. Dinner will be ready in…” she looked back at the recipe. “Forty-five minutes.”

        “Why did you make me clean the table if there was so much time?” His father asked.

        “It would have ruined the surprise,” his mother said defensively. “Besides, I don’t want us inhaling all of your solvents,” she added lightly.

        “The surprise is ready now.” Jascha had zoned out for a minute, but now his focus was centered on his father. “Jascha, would you like your surprise?” There was the slightest hint of a smile on his father’s lips, and his dark eyes gleamed.

        “Yes,” Jascha said excitedly. Was it a Guarneri? Possibly a Stradivarius?

        “Come, she’s in the piano room.” His father ushered for him to follow. Jascha paused only to grab Ernest’s hand.

        “Ernest. Ernest, it’s going to be a really cool violin,” Jascha said. Ernest smiled at him, clearly happy that he was happy, but beyond that just confused. “Dad, what’s her name? Did you name her? Did she come with a name? Did she-”

        Jascha paused. The case his father lifted was familiar, and not because it was one of the ones he kept at the shop. It was a chrome case that had ancient little ladybug stickers on it as well as about twenty years worth of carry-on flight stickers. There was a new dent in the top of the case that he didn’t recall, but other than that it was the same, right down to the CSO and Juilliard stickers.

        “Jascha?” Ernest asked. Jascha looked at him as he felt him place a hand on his back. “What’s wrong?” Ernest looked up at him with big, worried eyes. Of course he was worried. The entire household was within reaching distance of a collective breakdown.

         Jascha looked back to his father, who was holding the case out to him, calm and cool as always. He glanced behind him, and saw that his mother was there as well. She looked less cool and less calm; really more like she was going to burst into tears at any moment. He returned his gaze to his dad. “It’s impossible. The front of the car was crushed, and she was in the passenger’s side,” Jascha said quietly, squeezing Ernest’s hand.

         “No, the century of water damage was impossible,” his father said quietly. “And I fixed that before you could walk.” His father smiled, his statuesque features turning human as his sharp cheeks revealed their dimples.

         Jascha shook his head, even though he took cautious steps towards his father and the case. “I can’t look,” he said miserably. “What if there are cracks and I have to know they’re my fault?” He looked desperately to his father, who raised an eyebrow.

         “You think I’m amateur enough to let there be scars after my work?” He said.

         “No,” Jascha admitted.

         “You should look,” Ernest whispered, running his thumb over his knuckles comfortingly. “You really missed her, right?”

         Jascha looked between Ernest and his dad. They were all on good terms now that Ernest made a bargain with his father that, in exchange for being allowed to use Ernest’s car, his father would refrain from saying ‘boy mistress’ or ‘boy girlfriend,’ when speaking about him. In both Russian and English. Jascha added Lithuanian, just for good measure.

         “I can’t,” Jascha said miserably. He knew she’d gotten damaged in the crash. Even if his father did a masterful repair with utterly no trace of the accident in sight, he’d still know. And no matter how many times anyone told him it wasn’t his fault, it was still Jascha who drove the car that night. “It’s my fault. I hurt her.” He tried to back away, only to be stopped by Ernest wrapping an arm around his waist and holding him in steady.

         “Don’t do this to yourself,” he said gently, warm eyes looking at him with the most compassion he’d ever seen in a person. “She probably missed you, too.”

         “Ernest is right,” his father said. “Everyone knows that good violins only play for one set of hands at a time,” his father said firmly. “She is your violin, Jashen’ka,” he added softly.

         Jascha took a breath and walked the final three steps towards his dad, lifting the case stiffly from his hands and sitting with it on the piano bench. He ran his fingers over the dent. The case was high quality, but he had no idea if the manufacturer stress tested it for getting crushed and flipped by a truck. Who knows. Maybe they had.

         He was intensely aware of the eyes that were on him. Sure, he trusted everyone in the room with his life, but still. It was awkward for him. Especially since he felt like he was supposed to be ecstatic. This was his violin, after all. The most important object to him on the face of the earth, even from before he was big enough to play her. If you’d asked him two weeks ago what he would have given to hold her again, he would have offered everything short of Ernest. Maybe his parents, too. It was always a bad idea to compare his love for people to his love for Kroshka because of the guilt of wanting to choose her.

         His fingers hovered over the zipper. What if she looked different from his memories? He’d never gone so long without seeing her. Her strings were probably different. What if his father had gotten different brands of strings? Jascha shook that thought from his head as he realized that it was his father who chose the strings in the first place. Of course they were the same. What about the bow? He hadn’t asked if the bow was different.

         “Jascha,” he was pulled from his thoughts by his father’s hand on the back of his neck. “I promise you she’s in there,” he said quietly.

         “What happened to her?” Jascha asked miserably. “I-I need to know. Before I look.”

         His father sighed, and sat beside him. “Are you sure? You once cried for three hours because her bridge fell out.”

         “I was fifteen,” Jascha blushed slightly. His father raised an eyebrow.

         “That was only six and a half years ago,” he said lightly. “You aren’t so much older.”

         “I want to know,” Jascha repeated, tracing the dent idly with one finger.

         “She suffered impact trauma,” his father said slowly, keeping one hand on his back. He knew it was to keep him grounded. He appreciated the gesture. “Like a concussion, but for a violin. Her seams split, and the fingerboard came off. Ты в порядке?” He asked as he paused. Are you okay. Absolutely not, was what Jascha wanted to say. This was all so much worse than the bridge thing when he was fifteen, and in all honestly Jascha was feeling lightheaded.

         “Is she okay now?” Jascha forced himself to speak.

         “Of course,” his father said confidently. “It sounds much worse than it was. I finished most of her structural repairs back in Moscow. William helped me to restring her and get her bridge set up.”

         “What about the varnish? The back piece? I heard you talking about those things,” Jascha said quickly. “Was that her?”

         “No,” his father rubbed his shoulder reassuringly, dark eyes soft and kind. “I brought another project here after I took Ernest’s car to go get knives and go grocery shopping.”

         “Oh,” Jascha said, relief washing over him. “It was another violin?”

         “It is a viola, Jashen’ka,” his father smiled. “And that one will be okay too, once I figure out the annoying viola math and hear back from the lab on the analysis of the glue and varnish.” His father patted his shoulder. “Open the case.”

         Jascha grabbed hold of the zipper lightly. Had it always been so hard to unzip, or was he just imagining it? It felt like it took tremendous focus and strength to pull the zippers all the way around the edge of the case. Next he undid the little clasp, which normally was kept locked when he wasn’t at home. Apparently his father trusted everyone here enough to leave it open. All that was left was to open the case. Just open it, and look inside. It would probably smell the same; like beautiful, aged wood and the piney scent of rosin. The faintest scent of earl grey always lingered on the velvet lining as well, from the many hours it spent in his father’s workshop.

         He closed his eyes and lifted open the case. The smell was the same, which was good. Slowly, after taking a deep breath, Jascha opened his eyes. She was there, laying in the bed of green velvet that lined her case. Sure enough, there was no evidence that she’d been present at the time of his death. She was still perfect, the patches and shadows of her ancient varnish all as glossy and pristine as they were before. As if in a trance, he freed her from the straps that held her in the case. The action drew tiny sounds from the strings, and that was familiar too. From the looks of the decorative wrappings at the ends of the strings, his father had gotten the exact same brands as before. Truly, nothing had changed at all. As he lifted her out the trance was broken. He held her gently in his arms and leaned against his father’s shoulder.

         “Are you going to play?” Ernest asked quietly. Somehow in the course of the ordeal of getting her out of the case he’d appeared by his other side. Jascha shook his head. “No?” Ernest asked, concern clear as daylight on his face and in his voice.

         “I just want to hold her,” Jascha whispered, pressing his lips against the back of her scroll. His father wrapped an arm around his shoulders, stroking the side of his arm lightly. Jascha closed his eyes against the tears that threatened.

         “This is normal for him,” his father said softly. Jascha assumed that meant that Ernest still looked worried.

         “I’ll play after dinner, maybe. I want Henry to hear,” Jascha said, opening his eyes and smiling weakly at Ernest. “I promise I’m okay.” Jascha shifted so he could see his dad. “Is it okay if I lie down with her on the couch?” He asked. His father shrugged.

         “I don’t care what you do with her, so long as she’s with you,” he said passively. “Try not to fall asleep with her, maybe. I’d rather not have to replace her bridge again.”

         “I promise I won’t,” Jascha laughed slightly. “Ernest can make sure I don’t.” He stood as his father released him.

         “Good,” his father said approvingly. Jascha held Kroshka against his chest, pausing by his mother to get a hug from her.

         “Mom, you’re crying,” Jascha said gently as she kissed his cheek.

         “Yes,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Only a little.” She smiled and wiped a tear off his face. Evidently he was too.

         Once in the living room, Jascha curled up with his head on Ernest’s lap. He strummed Kroshka’s strings lightly, feeling each one under his fingers and reveling in the familiar sound each note made. He ran his fingers over her smooth curves and recognized every change in the shape and texture of her frame.

         “How are you feeling?” Ernest asked, breaking the quiet.

         “Hm,” Jascha hummed dreamily. “I’m good. I have her back,” he said reverently. “I have you and my parents, and they love you,” he sighed happily. “Everything is perfect. Soon you and Henry can hear me play the violin for real,” he said, turning his head slightly so he could kiss Ernest’s hand. “I’m so happy,” he whispered, meeting Ernest’s eyes. Ernest smiled at him warmly, and even despite the dark circles under his eyes from worrying about Henry his gaze was gentle and content. He bent down and kissed Jascha’s forehead lightly.

         “I’ve never seen you so happy,” Ernest whispered. He laughed quietly as Jascha cuddled Kroshka and gave her a kiss. “You’re so weird,” he said affectionately. His laugh melted back to a gentle smile. “I always want you to be this happy,” he said as he kissed his lips.

         “I will be,” Jascha smiled, closing his eyes and kissing Kroshka again. “I can be now.”


	52. Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry talks to Kassia. Victor reads a letter. Jascha watches violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello All! We hope you're enjoying our fit, especially since now we're working towards the finale! As always, we love hearing what you have to say and love comments and kudos. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter include: violence, gore, panic attacks, and mentions of past abuse

        “Where’s Victor?” Henry asked to no one in particular. “He said he’d meet me in our room after he talked to his dad.” He rested his chin on his knees. Victor’s blankets were warm and smelled like him, both of them really. Wood and lavender and peace and calm. He needed to stay upright. If he laid down then he wouldn’t be able to get back up ever again. “Victor?” He tried to call past the door and into some shadow dimension where he knew Victor had to be watching. 

        There were voices downstairs that were happy and ringing. Dinner. He was supposed to go downstairs for dinner. It should have been easy. Just one step followed by another and then another until he was successfully down the stairs smiling with William and Ernest while they talked about all the incredible things that have been happening to them. But the blankets were warm and smelled like safety and Henry couldn’t find it within his heart to leave. The voices dropped. Something was wrong. It was probably him. He knew it was suspect for him not to go to dinner, but it was difficult to care.

        Caring. He had too much of it and now that it was gone, it left a gaping hole in his chest. Apathy was a drug more addicting than crack cocaine and twice as vile. Henry never wanted to care ever again. At least with this newfound apathy draped over his shoulders like blackout curtains, he didn’t have to feel scared or embarrassed anymore. Being apathetic was the next best thing to being dead.

        Henry tried to shake the thought away from his head, but it stuck to the sides of his skull. His brain felt sticky and slow as it sloshed around inside his head. Maybe if he slept it would help. But then there were dreams and now Victor wasn’t here to protect him.

        Okay, so maybe he did still have some feelings after all. There was laughter downstairs. At least they weren't thinking about him anymore. That was good. They could just forget and he could dissolve into the void. Then it was quiet and then there were footsteps.

        “Victor?” he tried again. There was a pause and then a knock on his door. Victor didn’t knock. It was his own room after all. “Victor?” Maybe if he just said his name enough he could will him into his presence. Pathetic.

        “Henry, sweetheart, can I come in?” a woman’s voice floated through the door.

        “Who are you?” Henry clutched a pillow against his chest, but that meant he had to unfurl his legs and then his torso was exposed and he felt very squishy.

        “I’m Kassia, Jascha’s mom. I noticed neither you nor Victor were at dinner.” Her voice was soft and even as it settled around Henry’s shoulders like dandelion fluff.

        “Victor wasn’t at dinner?” He asked.

        “No, I have food for you. May I come in?”

        Henry didn’t say anything, but she opened the door anyway. He supposed if he really, truly wanted to be left alone, he should have locked the door. Not that he knew how. There was probably a key somewhere.

        It was difficult to focus on Kassia’s face. Henry’s cheeks burned with shame at causing someone he didn’t even know any amount of stress. There was another emotion. Shame. Great. It needed to stop.

        “Cake generally isn’t considered a good dinner food,” Henry mumbled. Kassia flicked on the lights and walked over to the bed. Henry scooted to the side so she could have some place to sit. The smell of honey and sugar overtook him and made him long for Victor even harder.

        “Yes, well, between Ernest and the little one, they really can put away about three full chickens.”

        That made Henry laugh. Oh yes, the joys of being either twelve or a sports star. They were one and the same, really. Kassia continued, “I had Jascha and Lukas make a cake. I tried to convince them to go with chocolate, but Lukas insisted on being a little more...traditional. I hope you like it.” She pushed the plate into Henry’s hands.

        It was practically half a cake. The outside what coated in what seemed like gourmet graham cracker crumbs and had eight thin layers of honey loaf cake smothered with honey creme frosting. Basically, it was heaven on a plate.

        Henry tentatively picked up the fork and tried a piece. “What’s it called?” he asked.

        “Medovik. It was one of Jascha’s favorites when he was a baby.” She smiled as she leaned against the headboard.

        “I didn’t know Jascha liked sweets,” Henry mused. It was hard to imagine Jascha liking anything other than music or Ernest.

        “Oh, he does. You should have seen him as a toddler. One time he stole a teacake from his grandmother and then put himself in timeout because he felt too much guilt.”

        Henry giggled. Self-imposed exile. He wouldn’t know anything about that. “Once, when I was a toddler, I really wanted to read my dad’s big, expensive book of Whitman poems and I tried to climb up our shelf to get it, but I got too tall and scared and my… I had to be rescued,” Henry laughed but it wasn’t as genuine this time. “I felt so bad I shut myself in the pantry for like...two hours before I got scared because it was dark.”

        Kassia smiled and her happiness radiated like the sun. “So you like poetry, then?”

        “I’m writing my thesis on homoerotisism and optimism in Walt Whitman’s ‘Song of Myself’ so yeah, you could say I’m into poetry.” Henry had the sudden, intense urge to grab the first edition from under the bed and cuddle it like a baby.

        “That’s nice,” Kassia kept smiling. Was there ever a time when she didn’t smile? When Jascha was dead. Obviously. “What else do you enjoy?”

        “I like figure skating a lot. It was the thing my...parents made me do when I was little. You know, the way parents make their kids do soccer.” Kassia’s smile faltered a bit. “I did figure skating. I got pretty good, too,” Henry laughed, It was hollow and lifeless. “Then, you know, things happened.”

        “What sort of things?” Kassia asked.

        “Parents things. People things. Gay things.” Henry tried to shrug noncommittally. “I was about thirteen, so that was that.”

        “Do those types of things happen a lot?” she asked. Her body language was open and languid. This wasn’t just about figure skating.

        “Yeah.” Tears started to prick at the corner of Henry’s eyes. He didn’t even know he was still capable of crying. He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and tried to avoid obviously sniffling, but he failed miserable. “I’m sorry,” he squeaked. “It’s been a bad...couple of days.” It was beginning to get harder and harder for Henry to choose the words that would get people to worry about him the least.

        “Is it alright for me to touch you?” Kassia asked. Henry thought for a moment. It hurt so much. He nodded weakly and let her put her arm around his shoulders.

        “I don’t know where Victor is,” he sobbed. It wasn’t what he meant to say, but Kassia seemed to understand anyway. He leaned into her chest and let himself be held.

        “Do you want to talk about what’s happened?” Kassia asked.

        Did he? No. He wanted to disappear and never talk to anyone again. He could become music and then everyone might love him again. Then again, it did make him feel better when he talked to Lukas.

        “It’s bad,” he said. It wasn’t a no and gave her ample room to back out of the horror movie that was being involved in his life.

        “I’ve seen bad things before.” She was right. She watched Jascha die. It was so hard for him to remember that he had even been dead. It really doesn’t get any worse than that.

        “It’s just--” he broke down sobbing for a moment before he was able to pull himself together. “My mother killed herself because I published an article about how my father mistreated me and I tried to get her to stay with me but it didn’t work and I could have tried harder but I didn’t and now she’s dead and it’s my fault and I don’t know what to do because I’m a bad person.” he took a deep breath and said quietly. “I’m a bad person.”

        Kassia held him tighter. He wanted to push away and save her from the poison that was seeping into her skin, but he didn’t have the strength.

        “It’s not your fault,” she said firmly. “There wasn’t anything you could have done.”

        “I could have tried harder,” Henry sobbed. He didn’t mean to cry in front of Jascha’s mother. “I was just a kid.”

        “You were just a kid,” Kassia agreed. “There are a lot of reasons for her to do what she did. All of it, but none of them were your fault. You did your best.”

        “I don’t know. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”

        “You keep living, even when it hurts,” Kassia’s breathing stopped being as steady even though her voice was calm. “Jascha and Ernest love you very much. So does Alphonse. The world is full of people who care about you.”

        “I wish she never talked to me. Then I could just keep thinking she hated me, just like he did. Then it wouldn’t matter.”

        “It would still matter.” Kassia ran her fingers through Henry’s hair. “There’s nothing that’s going to make it hurt less except time.”

        Soon Henry became too tired to keep crying and settled in Kassia’s lap. “Can you stay with me, please,” Henry whispered. “I don’t know where Victor is and I don’t want to be alone.”

        Even though it was barely past 7pm, Henry feel asleep as Kassia held him and pet his hair. For once, he didn’t dream. There was nothing but darkness and warmth.

        “Kassia, Jascha finally wants to play Kroshka.”As Henry blinked awake, he saw Lukas leaning into his room. “Henry’s more than welcome to come too. In fact,” he eyed Henry with mild concern, “he says he’d prefer for Henry to come.”

        Kassia yawned and rubbed her eyes. Henry supposed he should probably feel a little embarrassed for practically falling asleep in the lap of someone he just met, but he just felt safe and warm. He grabbed his plate of honey cake and followed Jascha’s parents downstairs.

        Jascha was pacing back and forth in front of the piano. He rubbed his fingertips over the ridges of Kroshka’s scroll. “Henry,” he said, smiling. “What should I play?”

        “Me?” Henry was surprised. He didn’t really know much about music. Victor was still nowhere to be seen.

        “Yes, you.” Jascha did not seem inclined to offer an explanation.

        “Uhhhh…” Henry was at a loss. “Do you know anything by Tchaikovsky.”

        “Yes,” Jascha seemed to perk up. “Mom, do you remember the Waltz Scherzo?”

        “Of course I do,” Kassia laughed as she walked to the piano. She played through a quick progression of chords to warm up. Henry settled into the couch next to Alphonse. Ernest and William were huddled in chair. They were both practically vibrating with excitement.

        It was no wonder that Jascha Simonis was Juilliard’s golden boy. The piece opened with percussive ricochet that Jascha kept perfectly under control. The climbing thirds rang truly in tune. Jascha smiled when he played. Every thrown harmonic and chord was placed with precision, but it seemed as free as breathing. The lyric section almost brought Henry to tears again, but this time with happiness, not grief.

        How many hours went into this? Henry allowed the thought to turn around his mind. It was one thing to play technically perfectly, it was another to play happily. And Henry could tell Jascha made mistakes. How could he not. After two months without really practicing plus being resurrected and having major surgery done to his hands and eyes, it was a minor miracle he could play at all. A major miracle, actually.

        Henry couldn’t explain how music felt warm. The Waltz Scherzo felt like sparks; not burning and all consuming like fire, but bright and sharp and wonderful. It was a waltz, after all, and Henry wanted to dance, but he didn’t want to interrupt Jascha’s music.

        Six minutes later and Jascha bowed. The smile that spread across his face was worth all the gold in the entire world and Henry was smiling too. Jascha and Ernest noticed, too.

        They spoke and Alphonse was in awe and somewhere in there, Jascha kissed Ernest and asked him what he should play next, but Henry wasn’t really paying attention. There was a knock on the door, or, Henry thought there was a knock on the door. No one ever knocked on the Frankenstein’s door.

        Henry quietly excused himself with a smile and Jascha gave him a look, but didn’t protest. “Don’t wait for me,” Henry said. His smile was so genuine it hurt his cheeks.

        As he wandered into the drawing room, Henry heard it again. That was definitely knocking. The sound of Jascha’s music floated through the air. It was Mozart this time, or maybe Haydn. Henry was bad at telling them apart. Henry opened the door.

        The yellow eyes that stared back weren’t human. Not at all. “Why?” That voice wasn’t human either.

        “I don’t. I didn’t--” Why couldn’t Henry scream? His father’s hands grabbed his shoulders. 

        “You! You little fag!” His father hissed. It was quieter than the concerto that rang around them. “Why?! Why do you want to ruin me?!” His spit got in Henry’s eyes. His fingers pressed hard into the muscle at the base of his neck.

        “Let me go,” Henry lashed out, but didn’t make any meaningful contact. “I’m not sorry. Not anymore.”

        “Why do you think you deserve to live? I should have killed you both!” Lawrence’s fingers wrapped around his throat. 

        “Stop!” Henry yelled. Lawrence’s grip tightened. No. No, this wasn’t happening. He wasn’t going to be strangled by his father. “Please stop! It hurts!” Henry wasn’t going to be able to say anything else. He thrashed and panicked. “Papa, please!”

        Darkness prickled in the edges of his vision. It hurt. He felt his fingers drag along Lawrence’s face and eyes. There was fire everywhere. Henry’s throat burned. His eyes burned. His head was going to explode. His muscles couldn’t work and he felt his legs crumpling. There was noise and footsteps and fear.

        “Henry!” A woman’s voice? He couldn’t tell. Victor. He wanted Victor. At least he could die in the arms of his lover. Darkness forced itself down his throat. He wanted Victor. Only Victor.

 

* * *

 

        “Wow,” Victor drawled as he looked over yet another half-filled form, “fascinating. Simply wonderful.” He dropped the paper, letting it float down to join the ever growing mess littering the floor. He looked to the clock again. Only half an hour had passed. It felt like it had been forever; three eternities and half a million years.

        Victor growled and ripped the next form into little pieces before letting them sprinkle down. If his father was intent on making his life miserable, after all, why not return the favor. Surely he didn’t need all this office work. He picked up another sheet and glanced up. Only thirty seconds had passed. For a blissful moment, Victor considered breaking his promise and just leaving. Even if Henry wasn’t missing him yet, Victor felt like his skull might crack open from the stress of separation, from the consumptive fear born from Lawrence’s claim.

_‘The situation is being handled as we speak.’_

        Victor sighed and looked down to his nail beds, almost surprised to find them bleeding sluggishly. Then again, he thought darkly, maybe his father’s words had a bit of truth in them. He wasn’t exactly working at peak performance levels right now.

        Maybe he was just being paranoid.

        He sat back in the tall chair and fiddled with a paperweight from the desk, passing it between his hands. Somewhere far below him there traveled laughter and a few happy exclamations. His dad had said he’d keep an eye on Henry. That he’d let nothing happen to him and Victor hoped desperately that Henry was down there with the rest of the family, laughing and smiling. Downstairs and away from him, kept apart so that Victor couldn’t feel him or hold him or make sure his heart was still beating or-

        Victor snuck another look at the clock. Two minutes had clicked by and Victor was officially done being mature and sane. He stood and walked over to the door, trying the handle. Locked. Peachy. Guess he’d scared his dad a bit more than anticipated.

        Victor stepped back and frowned at the brassy handle. He could get it with a letter opener.

        Technically speaking, no one was allowed in the drawers of his father’s desk, not even Liz, but also technically speaking, locking your kid in your office without just cause was child endangerment so who really gave a damn. Victor rifled through the first two drawers and dumped the bland contents on the floor beside his father’s papers. It was composed almost entirely of junk, work files, and, like, college transcripts from Ernest. Victor nodded in approval of the solid A+ streak his brother maintained in biology before throwing the card to one side. The next three drawers were all locked. Luckily, Victor had identified the key’s hiding spot years ago, after a particularly long stint of house-arrest fever had driven him to search the entire house for hidden rooms. He pulled all three drawers open at once.

        Victor yanked the innards out of each with increasing frustration. There was still no sign of anything sharp enough to pry a doorknob with, just a bunch of birth certificates and insurance information and small family heirlooms. Victor tore through the lot, only pausing as he reached a stack of photographs. He traced a slender finger over the image of his mother holding a tiny baby Ernest while Victor clung to her leg, grinning hard at the camera. He made sure to carefully set that one aside before plowing on.

        A few more photos followed. Victor recognized some of them, photos of him and siblings and Henry at various outings and competitions, shots of his father, mother, and Liz’s dad in college, a smattering of aged childhood pictures of his dad. He threw anything he didn’t deem useful into the trash pile, promptly felt bad, and dove to retrieve them.

        Still, there was nothing to get him out. Victor weighed the pros and cons of screaming for William to come bust him out, confident he could bribe the kid with knowledge about Ernest’s brief but embarrassing punk phase, before remembering that he was probably at dinner.

        An hour left to go. Well. At least he’d passed _some_ time. Victor plucked a random slip of paper from the floor and skimmed it over, trying desperately to occupy his spiraling mind. Blah, blah, sentimental crap, blah, blah, something about watches, blah, blah, skinny dipping. Victor paused and reread that last bit. Yup, definitely said skinny dipping. He turned over the letter and read the signature. V. L.

        Who did his father know named V. L.? And, more importantly, why did this V .L. talk like he wanted Victor’s father to bend him over a table.

        Victor sat back in his chair. “Holy shit.” He said to no one in particular. “Dad had a mistress.”

        But then again, that didn’t sound right either. His dad was the least likely person ever to cheat, not only because he was entirely devoted to Victor’s mom but because he abhorred any kind of actual rule breaking. Victor flipped the paper and forced his scattered attention into reading the letter more carefully.

 

_Alphonse,_

_Assuming you found this because of the note I left you, I’m probably dead. I’m leaving you all this crap because it’s all the objects that actually matter, other than the journal you have to give Lizzie on her sweet sixteen. Most of these pictures are meant to serve as evidence to your kids that you are not the cool, reserved lawyer you’re trying so hard to be. Put them in an album or something, and let them see the real you. Maybe don’t let them read the notes on the backs of the pictures until they’re adults, though. We both know what I was like in college. What I’m still like. Also, kudos to you for never giving me the pleasure of walking in on you having sex with Plath or nude while we were living together. God knows I never knocked, and occasionally picked the lock just for fun. This means that I’ve somehow managed to die without ever knowing what you look like naked._

 

        God, this V. L. was creepy and that was coming from Victor.

        And Plath. That must have been his mom if the letter was addressed to his dad. He’d heard the unfortunate nickname kicked around the house for a few years during his childhood, emerging specifically around the time Victor started going off the rails. Age nine or so. He read on.

         _Anyways, the locket is for Lizzie. It was my mom’s, and when she kicked it she left it to me in the hopes that I’d have a wife. Obviously, that didn’t work out. Lucky for her, I have a daughter. Tell her to keep something useful in it, like cyanide or coke or something. Boyfriends don’t deserve to be kept in 24 karat gold. If she has a kid, I guess she can put a picture of it in there. Or if she gets married. God, please tell her not to get married to a man. We’re trash._

__

        Victor snorted. Justine was about as far from a man as could be managed so at least that had worked out for the dead guy. He was starting to get a good idea who this V. L. was, if stories and blurry childhood memories were serving him well.

 

_The watch is for you to do with as you please. It’s really fucking nice, so don’t you even consider breaking it, selling it, or giving it to one of your messy kids. I got it in exchange for leaking some numbers to an Italian beaurocrat looking to get his toes wet in the illegal arms ring. The constellations are accurate, and the watch face is abalone. Numbers and stars are inlaid with platinum, and the band itself is white gold and titanium. Give it to someone you care about. But not Plath. She would pretend to like it, but we both know that this isn’t her style._

__

        Henry’s watch. The one Dad had given him when he'd officially joined the family. Of course, thoughts of Henry made Victor’s stomach churn with nervousness and sharp fear so he refocused quickly.

 

_The lighter is for you, and I’d like it to stay with you. I’m sure you recognize it as the one I used to carry around all the time at school. You know, the one I almost got expelled for lighting during that awful English seminar we had our first year. It has my initials on it, and it’s kind of fancy. Mostly it just means a lot to me for nostalgia purposes. Maybe use it to light something on fire every once in a while. You know, like in my memory or some shit. Or just fiddle with it during your legal studies. Try not to burn down your own house._

_Have fun reading all the inscriptions on the photos. You and Plath can laugh at them. I tried to get provocative photos of you, but I think the closest I ever got was that trip we took to California our senior year. I’m never going to forgive you for refusing to go skinny dipping at the beach with us. What person swims with trunks on at three in the morning? You, apparently. Fucking puritan._

_Anyways, since you’re a doe-hearted, hyper-emotional romantic, I’ll speak your language for a minute. I love you. Always have, always will. You’re the best friend I could have asked for, and I can’t stress enough how little I deserved you. I know that this is hard, and you’re probably going to resent me for it, but that’s okay. I promise that you’ll see me again, and when you do you’d better finally go skinny dipping with me at the beach._

_Tell your idiot kids that I love them, and make sure Lizzie knows she’s perfect._

_Don’t cry too much,_

_V. L._

 

        Well that was almost sweet. Exempting the parts where Lizzie’s dad heavily implied that he was going to rise from the dead to fuck Victor’s dad, of course. Though, Victor supposed that wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to happen under this roof. He’d already brought a violinist back and watch him proceed to fall in love with his brother.

        Whatever. Victor set the letter aside. If his arms-dealing, probably murdered namesake Victor Lavenza wanted to turn up out of the woodwork after twenty years of being legally deceased to seduce his dad, well, Victor would personally give him his blessing. It didn’t sound like young Alphonse had been much interested anyways.

        No, what really caught Victor’s attention out of the letter was the reference made to an expensive lighter. Victor dove back into the drawer and pried it loose from the desk. He shook it and grinned sharply when something hard landed against his foot. Perfect. Victor dropped to his knees and dug the golden lighter out. It flashed in the light as he rotated it, the scripted V. L. appearing clearly.

        “Thank you, Old Man Victor.” He muttered under his breath.

        As more laughter and the clattering of plates floated beneath the doorway, Victor pressed the lighter to the doorknob’s exposed screws and ignited it, watching metal turn a dull red. Admittedly, this plan may take longer than Victor had left trapped in the office but he wasn’t feeling too charitable towards his father anyway. If the man couldn’t have the decency to listen to Victor’s completely rational ravings, why should he respect his already thoroughly wrecked study.

        Victor shifted so that he was sitting on the floor, one hand extended into the air and ear turned more fully towards the activity in the hall and downstairs. He could hear the strong accent of Dr. Simonis somewhere, William’s still high and reedy giggles, his father’s booming voice. Still nothing of Henry. Victor wanted Henry. Victor needed Henry. In fact, if Victor didn’t confirm within the next three minutes that Henry was still breathing, he might actually lose it and he didn’t mean that metaphorically.

        He could feel how taught his brain had grown, how desperately the pulled strings wanted to snap. The delicate silver traces of sinister at the edges of his mind, all the sensations and memories he’d pushed away, shoved back, stowed to be dealt with when Henry was in better health, in happier times, like those would ever come. Like his life would ever be anything but pain and distrust and torment, a constant cycle of watching Clerval be ripped away from him, taken, _his_ Clerval, his promised heart…

        Victor moaned and tucked his head into his extended arm. No. He couldn’t do this. Not now. Ideally not ever again but definitely not now. He steeled himself and barred the messy waves of insanity from his mind.

        He reached up and grabbed the burning bolts, uncaring of the way the flaming metal seared into his skin. He gave the door handle an experimental tug and grinned maniacally when it gave way slightly. Soon. Soon enough he’d be free and back with Henry and he could tell him what he’d seen on the television, what he knew. Henry would believe him and together they could make a plan, find a way to better defend this house or to run away. Perhaps they could go wherever Victor Lavenza had. And if Victor could convince Ernest and Jascha,too, maybe, maybe. Maybe he could protect him. There was nothing more important in the world, after all, than Henry and there was nothing Victor wouldn’t do to keep him safe and happy and alive.

        The talking downstairs stilled and a piano took up the unoccupied silence, chased in quick succession by the gentle strikes of violin. Without lowering the lighter, Victor pressed his ear against the hardwood and tried to pull all his attention to the melody. Listen to calming music. Wasn’t that one of the things they told you to do when you felt like flipping out? Victor couldn’t quite remember. He leaned back from the door and pressed his hand flat to the wood. When he dragged it away, it left a small smudge of blood.

        Victor hated parallels.

        “Henry!” A woman’s voice called, panicky and loud, even from a floor above and Victor jumped to his feet. The violin stopped midstep. With a strength he didn’t know he possessed, Victor wrenched the weakened handle from the door. He was rounding the corner of the steps before his brain even registered that he’d left the study.

        “Lukas!” In the edge of his vision, Jascha’s mother was standing in the hallway, staring in horror at the front door. Victor flung himself around the corner of the stairs. He froze.

        The world seemed to slow as he registered. The larger body. The same shock of slightly waved hair. The pulled lips. Like a child’s nightmare. A monster under the bed. And Henry, his love, red faced, mouth opened in a scream without sound, fingers fumbling along Lawrence’s cheeks, eyes transfixed on his father’s empty glower, yellow as sulfur.

        He may have screamed. He may have called Henry’s name. Victor didn’t quite know. But whatever he said, it caused Lawrence’s eyes to flick towards him for the briefest second, before returning to Henry’s. His clenched teeth grinned into bloody fangs. “See that fag.” He hissed. “You thought you were safe here? Now I get to kill you in front of your bitch boyfriend, too.”

        Lawrence tightened his hold around Henry’s throat and Victor saw red. He attempted to lunge forward only to be caught around the waist and dragged back. He kicked blindly against his assailant, eyes never leaving Lawrence, and now he knew for sure that he was screaming, loud and ragged, even if he couldn’t distinguish the words.

        Like watching a horror movie in slow motion, like his worst nightmare, like the last moment before his mother closed her eyes forever, Victor couldn’t look away, life draining from Henry’s bright amber eyes in aborted heaves of the chest and Victor couldn’t, please, he couldn’t watch Henry die! He didn’t want to watch Henry die!

        Then someone threw a punch.

 

* * *

 

        Jascha was delayed only by putting Kroshka away. It was rare that he saw evidence of his father’s former life as a dancer, but the second his mother yelled his father managed to get out of the chair and across the room in what felt like one fluid motion. Then he heard other things, worse things.

        “Jascha,” Ernest was pale by his side. “Jascha it’s _him_.”

        “Who?” Jascha asked as they too left the study. Jascha’s eyes fell on a tall, broad man with coiffed blond hair. His eyes were an unnerving shade of yellow. “Oh. _Oh._ Dad?!” Jascha watched as his own father said untranslatable things in Russian and gripped Lawrence’s wrists in his own. Jascha clapped his hands over William’s ears as he heard the joints dislocate with a sickening crunch. Henry would have fallen, except Jascha’s father caught him lightly, passing him back to his mother in a very quick motion.

        “Make sure he’s okay,” his father said quietly.

        “Lukas,” his mother said through her teeth, cradling Henry against her chest. “Kill him.”

        “What?” Jascha said, desperately holding William against his chest so he might not see or hear this. “Dad?!” Too late. His father grabbed the sides of Lawrence’s head and brought it down on his knee. Funny how that was exactly what he’d done to Mason. The difference was that his father knew what his was doing, and the action was met by a gush of blood and the crunching of bone. Jascha felt Ernest gasp and hide his face against his shoulder. He stroked William’s hair, trying his best to keep him calm during the carnage.

        There was a wet laugh, and Lawrence looked past his dad to Alphonse. “You take in commie spies too now? You-” There was a hacking sound as his father pulled Lawrence up by the back of his coat, ramming him against the door frame.

        “You are his father?” His dad asked in stiffened English, voice low and violent. Lawrence spat a bloody glob in his face, and his father cracked him under the jaw. The motion was accompanied by the awful breaking of teeth and what Jascha could only assume was his jaw. He felt his vision blur and his knees get weak, but he commanded himself to stand. Lawrence’s face was unrecognizable; a mess of blood, spit, and bruises. He was still technically awake, but that last blow shut him up. 

        His father shook out the hand he’d used to strike him just before he used it to bring Lawrence’s head back down over his knee, collapsing him to the floor. A quick series of kicks to the groin, guts, and solar plexus insured that Lawrence Clerval was going to be out of commission until either hell or an ambulance came to get him.

        At some point, Victor made it downstairs. He was curled around Henry, crying and whispering to him. His mother still held Henry in her lap, running her slender fingers through his blond hair. For a terrifying moment Jascha thought he was dead, but Henry shifted and wrapped his arms around Victor. Alphonse and his father were speaking quietly, standing protectively between the crippled body of Lawrence and the rest of the house.

        Jascha realized William was sobbing. So was Ernest, but he was better at hiding it. He glanced back to his mom and Henry, who was awake now and more or less having a breakdown into Victor’s chest. His mom knew how to handle those, and Henry was going to be physically safe for as long as his dad was there.

        “Let’s go in the music room,” Jascha said quietly, patting William on the head. The kid was attached to him by a vice grip, and he seemed not to hear his voice. “William, I’m picking you up,” Jascha stated, hefting the kid off his feet. William wrapped his arms tightly around his neck, shaking and crying. Ernest followed close behind. Jascha settled on the couch, letting William stay in his lap. Ernest sat beside him, face pressed against his shoulder while he stroked William’s hair.

        “Is Uncle Henry okay?” William asked between sobs,

        “Yes,” Jascha said quietly. “He was awake just now as we left. My mom is with him and Victor right now.”

        “Is Dr. Simonis okay?”

        “My father is completely fine,” Jascha smiled weakly.

        “Are we safe?” William asked, barely above a whisper. Jascha sighed and gave him a tighter hug, leaning his head against Ernest’s.

        “Yes, William,” Jascha said gently. It was so much easier to be calm when he had to do it for William. “We’re all safe. No one is in danger except Henry’s dad.”

        “Is he dead?” Ernest asked against his shoulder.

        “No, I don’t think so,” Jascha sighed. He didn’t _think_ is father would actually kill someone, but then again, maybe he would. “He just needed to knock him out so Henry could be safe. He’s talking to your dad now about what they’ll do next.” Ernest nodded.

        “Okay,” Ernest said quietly. “I want to go check on Henry,” he said as he got up. He swayed slightly on his feet, looking weak and terrified. Maybe a little nauseated.

        “Are you okay?” Jascha asked. Ernest gave him a weak smile.

        “I’ll be fine. It just, like,” his smile faltered, “brought up some stuff from the frat.”

        Jascha nodded slowly. “I’ll be in here with Will if you need me,” he said quietly.

        Ernest bent down and kissed him chastely, pressing their foreheads together for several seconds afterwards. “Yeah, I’ll be okay,” he said softly, more to himself than anyone else. He kissed him one more time, a little less stiffly, and then was gone.

        Jascha could hear quiet voices from the hallway, but couldn’t make out the words. Henry and Victor were less quiet but even more unintelligible. He could hear his mother quietly coaching Henry away from another panic attack, a skill she’d learned when Jascha was a little kid. Her voice was musical and very gentle, seeping with patience and kindness. Amazingly, she was also addressing Victor.

        Jascha leaned back against the couch. William wasn’t really in a talking mood, which worked well for him. He closed his eyes, opening them quickly as the images of his father shattering Lawrence’s bones flickered behind his eyes. Sure, Jascha would have done the same thing, but it was different when you have to watch your father do it; a man who, up until now, had never so much as killed a spider, no matter how much his mom begged him to. Lawrence of course was much more evil and dangerous than even the scariest insect. His father never did have any patience for dictators.

        “William,” Jascha was pulled from his thoughts by his father’s voice. His dad looked rough, even if he’d wiped off the blood from his face and hands. He’d never seen his dad look tired, but now he did. “Is it alright if I sit?” His father asked. Jascha nodded.

        “Dr. Simonis?” William asked weakly, still buried in Jascha’s arms.

        “Please, call me Lukas.” Jascha was amazed as he watched the typical impassive stoniness fall away from his father’s voice and face, replaced by gentle softness. “I am sorry you had to see that,” he said, looking at both him and Will.

        “I’m glad you did it,” Jascha whispered. “He’s evil.”

        “He is,” his father nodded. “Alphonse is going to call an ambulance and then write a legal case against him. He will rot in prison.”

        “He’s still alive?” William squeaked more than spoke.

        “I’m not a murderer,” his dad said softly. He smiled as William freed himself from Jascha and looked up at him.

        “Is Henry okay?” William asked.

        “Henry is with Kassia,” Lukas said, face turning serious. “I’m not a murderer, but if anyone tries to cross her to hurt Henry they will face a lion.”

        “Mom wouldn’t-” Jascha started.

        “Yes, she would,” his father said with a smile. “You have no memory of what she was like when you were a baby. She nearly tore your uncle to shreds once, just because he held you without her permission. She has the lethality and ruthlessness of a KGB agent when it comes to the safety of children,” he said with pride.

        “Okay…” Jascha decided he wasn’t going to worry about that right now.

        “William,” his father said gently. “Ernest is very sad and I believe he would benefit from having Jascha. May I keep you company instead?”

        Jascha looked down to William, who looked between him and his father a few times before settling on his father. “Can I lay in your lap?” William asked shyly.

        “Of course,” his father said firmly. William nodded and let Jascha get up, curling instead against his father. It was amazing how quickly the kid could decide he trusted someone.

        Sure enough, once he stepped out of the sanctuary of the music room the place was a nightmare. Alphonse was on his phone back near the kitchen while his mom seemed to be coaching both Victor and Henry away from their respective romantically driven panic attacks. Ernest was on the stairs near them with his face in his hands. Jascha went and sat beside him, stroking his back lightly.

        “Ernest?” He asked, opening up his arms as Ernest leaned against his chest.

        “I’m okay,” Ernest said into his hands.

        “No,” Jascha shook his head. “You don’t seem okay.” Ernest drew a shaky breath.

        “It’s just a lot,” he whispered. “And when I got close to Henry…” he faltered. “Victor lashed out. Not a big deal. Just...too much.”

        Jascha leaned his chin on Ernest’s head. “I doubt he meant it,” he said softly, watching as his mother somehow remained unperturbed by Victor saying terrible things at her as she treated the bruises on Henry’s neck with arnica.

        “I...know,” Ernest sighed. “I think.”

        “It’s okay,” Jascha kissed his head. “Henry is alright. Soon he’ll come down.”

        “Yeah,” Ernest sniffled. “Where’s Will?”

        “My dad has him,” Jascha nuzzled his curls. “They’re friends now. First name basis.”

        This earned him a strained laugh. “Good,” Ernest said. “He’ll be safe with him.”

        “Mhm,” Jascha nodded. “And you’re safe with me.”

        “Yeah,” Ernest took a deep breath, relaxing a little. “Yeah, I am.”

 

 


	53. Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry goes to therapy. Victor makes a list. Jascha tries to leave the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thanks for sticking with us as we approach the end! We aways love hearing from you and comments and kudos make our entire day!
> 
> Trigger Warnings for this chapter include: mentions of past abuse and trauma

        Henry knew he wasn’t dead because when he died there had to be something other than darkness and silence. Maybe it wouldn’t be the same tunnel of light that religious fanatics raved about, but it was something different. This was not death, no matter how badly he wanted it. This was being knocked unconscious and it had happened three times before. 

        “I’ll slit your throat! You all deserve it! Henry!” Someone shrieked. Henry’s head buzzed and rang and he couldn’t tell where any sound was coming from, but it wasn’t his father. His father didn’t call him Henry. The sound pierced through his ears and sent prickling spikes into his brain.

        Victor, sweetheart, why don’t you go get Henry some tea.” That was Kassia’s voice. Henry was sure and those were her hands holding his chest together.

        “No! You can’t take him away from me again! I’ll kill you all if you touch him!” Victor continued to shriek and it hurt Henry's ears.

        “Too bad.” Henry felt her gently stroke his hair. He began to cry. “There’s also Tylenol in my purse.”

        There was supposed to be silence when neither of them were talking, but Henry could hear the distinct sound of crushing bones and coagulating blood. It was almost as sweet as Jascha’s music because he knew those sounds were coming from his father’s nose and throat.

        It filled him with perverse euphoria. No one was ever going to hurt him ever again. For real this time. Lawrence would never be able to call him a fag ever again because his teeth were split in his skull and it hurt. It hurt like hell. Henry hoped it kept hurting forever. Bloodlust dripped from his tongue as sweet as honey cake.

        Henry wanted to vomit, but couldn’t because Kassia was holding him. He also wasn’t sure if he could. His throat burned.

        “What flavor?” Victor asked. Henry was sure it was Victor this time. He sounded hollow and bitter and dead.

        “Lavender chamomile. It’s also in my purse. Just get my purse. It has everything I’ll need.” How could Kassia keep so calm? The sound of Lawrence’s blood dripping on the ground was deafening.

        “I don’t want to leave him again.” Victor touched Henry’s hair right where Kassia’s fingers were.

        “You can hold him when you come back with my purse.” Henry wanted to be held by Victor now, but he didn’t have the strength to protest and his throat hurt too much to even sob properly. It hurt to breathe and Henry was breathing so much. Hyperventilating. Henry wished he would pass out again.

        “Can you breathe with me, Henry?” Words he heard a hundred times before because every waking moment was a new type of hell. In through his nose, out through his mouth except when it burned. Then in through his nose and out through his nose even though he couldn’t get enough air.

        “I don’t want to die anymore.” Henry’s voice was the imitation of hollow reeds or coins thrown in a washing machine. 

        “I know you don’t,” Kassia whispered. “Can you tell me four things you can hear?”

        Henry had to think for a second. The obvious answer was blood, but he couldn’t hear that anymore. “I hear Alphonse and Lukas whispering, but I don’t know what they’re saying,” Henry gasped. He wished he didn’t have to speak, but he knew, somewhere in the back of his head that it was supposed to help. “The heat is making that weird electrical sound. There are footsteps on hardwood.”

        “That’s Victor. He’s making you tea. He’ll be back soon.” Henry relaxed a little bit.

        “William is crying.” Henry started to weep again. It was his fault. He made William cry. He made William cry again.

        William will be alright. He’s just shaken up and worried about you.”

        “I’m sorry,” Henry sobbed.

        When Victor came back with tea and Kassia’s purse, Lukas left to go find Jascha and Ernest, wherever they were. Henry suddenly felt a lot less safe. Lawrence was laying crumpled in a pool of his own blood, but he could still get up. Probably. If he wasn’t dead.

        “Henry, can you tell me three things you can touch?” Kassia’s voice floated above the haze of pain.

        “I can feel the floor against my knees. I can feel the warmth of the coffee mug.” There was a small dent in the rim which meant it was the one Victor got him when his thesis was approved. _‘I sound my barbaric yawp,’_ it said. Victor wrapped his arms loosely around Henry’s shoulders.

        “You said I could hold him when I brought you your purse,” Victor said.

        Henry pushed back into his embrace. “I can feel Victor’s heart beating against my back.” Henry didn’t feel like he was having a panic attack any more.

        “Can you tell me two things you can smell?” Kassia asked. Grounding techniques. That was right. He remembered when he learned this from all the books Victor gave him when he was a teenager.

        “I smell lavender and chamomile from the tea and cedar wood from the Victor.” That made Kassia laugh. It wasn’t supposed to be funny, but it was better than abject misery. Henry tried to lead his head back against Victor’s chest but his muscles ached. Kassia dug through her purse and pulled out a tube of arnica gel and some Tylenol.

        The gel was both cool and warm at the same time as Kassia coached Victor through how to apply it to Henry’s skin. Victor’s touch was nice and soft and he whispered things in his hair that he didn’t quite understand, but never the less, it felt nice.

        Henry zoned out into the void where he didn’t have to pay attention to anything except the feel of Victor’s gentle fingers on his neck. A moment of tension pierced even into the veil.

        “Victor, that’s not how we talk to the people. If you’re going to be violent to people, then you won’t be allowed to keep taking care of Henry.” Kassia’s voice was gentle but firm. Victor probably said something horrible to Ernest. Henry cared, really he did, but it was hard to put energy into that caring. He knew Victor didn’t mean it and he said horrible things when he was stressed, too. It would be okay.

        It was difficult to finish the cup of tea, but he did it anyway and he felt a little better. Henry let himself be held. Victor ran his fingers over his cheeks and through his hair. Henry’s ear was pressed against his chest and he could clearly hear his heart thrumming healthily behind his ribs. He was vaguely aware that Kassia was still speaking to him, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. The call of the velvet soft void was stronger than fear or loathing.

        “I think I want to go to sleep now,” Henry mumbled.

        “No, no, you can’t. It’s going to be okay. Just stay awake. I’ve got you.” Victor held him tighter and pressed the palm of his hand over Henry’s heart.

        “Victor, sweetheart,” Kassia said, an edge of amusement in her voice. “He doesn’t have hypothermia. He’s allowed to sleep.”

        Henry nodded in weak agreement and Kassia helped him upstairs. He practically fell face first into Victor’s bed. Their bed. After Kassia said some things that Henry absolutely could not hear, Victor curled up next to him and pulled the blankets over their shoulders. Underneath, he cocooned Henry against all the horrors of the world.

        “What’s going to happen now?” Henry asked, surprised at the relative strength in his voice. 

        “I heard Dad call Konig. He said he would drive us at 9:30 tomorrow. I think he locked himself in his office to write the most brutal legal takedown that will ever be presented in court.” Victor nuzzled into the top of Henry’s shoulder. A quick stab of frosting pain blossomed in Henry’s chest before remembering it was Konig. Just Konig. He could trust him because Victor did.

        “Is my heart still beating?” Henry asked. Victor pressed gently against his chest.

        “It is. It’s going to keep beating, I promise.”

        Henry closed his eyes and let himself be held. He was exhausted, but wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to actually sleep. There was still blood and the sounds of broken bones, even if they were mostly drowned out the soft sound of Victor breathing.

        “I love you,” he whispered, hoping that Victor would hear.

        “I love you too.”

 

        The morning came much faster than Henry expected, which meant that he did indeed managed to fall asleep. As far as he could tell, he didn’t have any nightmares, at least, not that he could remember. Victor didn’t seem any more freaked out than he had the night before, so it was probably safe to say that he didn’t have any that he couldn’t remember either.

        Victor helped him into nicer clothes and walked him to the car where Alphonse was waiting. There was a man who truly didn’t sleep. Usually, one of them would have opted to sit shotgun, but Henry wasn’t really ready to be separated form Victor yet.

        A kind of poisonous tension filled the car, but Henry couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. Victor held his hand all the way to Dr. Konig’s office.

        Henry filled out some paperwork and Alphonse filled out some paperwork and Victor watched them fill out some paperwork. There were other people in the waiting room, of course, and any other day Henry would have watched them somewhat intensely. Today, however, he could only focus on Victor’s hand and the state of his breathing.

        “Are you Henry Clerval?” a very German old man asked. For all he had heard of Konig, Henry had never actually seen the man before. He looked like a Bavarian Santa Clause.

        “Is it my turn?” Henry asked, ashamed at how afraid his voice sounded. Dr. Konig nodded. He tried to step forward, but was pulled back by Victor.

        “Viktor,” Konig said, “I understand this is difficult for you, but it is what’s best for Henry.”

        “I never said--” Victor tried to argue.

        “Yes, but you look it. You may have Henry back in exactly one hour.” Konig said gently.

        “Exactly one hour,” Victor repeated.

        “Exactly one hour. Now, come Henry, we have a lot to get through, yes?” He turned and Henry followed him down a hall and into his office.

        It looked how Henry's writing desk would look if he were in one place long enough for him to be able to spread out all his stuff. There were piles of books and papers and a coffee machine running. Henry sat down in a puffy green chair that almost reminded him of the one from home.

        “Let’s start with the basics, yes?” Konig said as he pulled out his notebook. “Family history?”

        Henry laughed bitterly. “Well, my mother just killed herself and my father just tried to kill me, so it’s not like we have the best mental health record on the planet.”

        “Do you know anything about your grandparents?” Konig asked.

        “We didn’t really talk about that kind of stuff ever,” Henry admitted.

        “What did your living situation look like?”

        “Hell.” Henry didn’t mean to say it and Konig looked up and cocked an eyebrow. “Uhh, I’m sorry. I mean that I lived with my parents until I was fourteen and then I started living with Victor and his family. I...uhh lived with them until I went away to college and I came back over breaks like normal people do and...yeah.”

        Konig wrote down everything in his notebook. “Why was your living situation ‘hell’?”

        “I know you already know the answer to that,” Henry sighed.

        “Yes, but it’s part of the process, yes? As far as you know, Victor Frankenstein is a complete stranger to me.” Konig smiled. It was strange. He seemed completely disinterested in basically everything. Actually, it was a welcome change from Waldman’s hyperintrest.

        “I guess my parents were image obsessed and when I didn’t conform to their perfect little daydream, my father decided to...deal with it.”

        “How so?”

        “He hit me and yelled at me and...all sorts of things. I think I was ten. I walked in on him having sex with another politican at a ball.”

        “And you think that was the incident that spurred his violent feelings towards you?”

        “It sure seemed like it. I...didn’t do anything. I was just a kid.” Henry curled into himself a little.

        “Indeed you were.” Konig didn’t say anything else, but Henry felt compelled to keep talking. It was so much easier than with Waldman. Henry was pretty sure there weren’t right answers anymore.

        “It was pretty bad and my mother told me that he told her he’d kill me if she tried to protect me. So she didn’t. Even when I begged her to leave. And it stayed the same level of bad until I tried to come out to them when I was 14. I tried once before and my mom decided to send me to this man...Waldman. I don’t think he was actually a doctor.”

        “Waldman,” said Dr. Konig.

        “Do you know him?”

        “I am professionally aware of him, but continue.” He kept making notes in his book.

        “So, that was pretty terrible, and when I tried again, my father flipped out and broke a bottle over my head and then I flipped out and ran away to Bastion and Alphonse found me and took me back to his home and then things were better.”

        “What’s Bastion?” Konig asked.

        “It’s a camp sight near a lake. We used to go there was a family when I was little. It’s where I met Victor and then I went with the Frankensteins once my family lost interest.”

        “Did you like it there?”

        “Back in the day, it was beautiful. Now it’s kinda gross and run down. I...kinda had another breakdown earlier this year and ran away there again and it was...bad.”

        “What happened?” Konig asked. In the back of his head, Henry felt like he should have been scared, like this was a great breach in his personal privacy, but he wasn’t. It was almost as easy as talking in Victor. Easier, in fact. Konig’s non judgemental, non committal stare set him entirely at ease.

        “Victor was having a breakdown about being a bad person and it kinda sparked something and I needed out.” Henry tried to shrug. “He just kept screaming that he was a bad person.”

        “Do you think he’s a bad person?” Konig asked.

        “No. He struggles with empathy and things like that sometimes, but he’s a good person. He cares so much and he’s trying really hard to do better and I’ve seen the difference.”

        “Do you think you’re a bad person?”

        That threw Henry for a loop. “I don’t... I don’t know. Maybe?” There was silence, not even the sound of Konig’s scratching pen. “Yes,” he finally admitted. “It’s my fault. I let my parents get bad and I enabled Victor and I don’t even know how to stand up for myself.”

        “And why does that make you a bad person?” Konig asked and for once, Henry didn't have an answer.

 

* * *

 

        Victor’s comprehensive list of everyone allowed to be near Henry from now until infinity went as followed:

        William: Allowed. Sweet. Baby. He made Henry happy, which made him an essential element, even if Henry’s worrying about William also made him sad sometimes. Plus, he was like twelve, meaning that Victor could easily overpower him.

        Liz: Not allowed. She left Henry alone so she lost her privilege.

        Justine: Also not allowed. See reasons above.

        Jascha: Not allowed. Tall. Buffish. Knew how to beat people up. Played the violin, an inherently untrustworthy instrument.

        Ms. Simonis: Allowed but on thin ice. She’d made Victor leave Henry but also let him come back. She was nice too, he guessed, and not physically imposing but the poison in her glares made her iffy.

        Dr. Simonis: Allowed. Encouraged. Even if he was an expressionless bastard, Victor approved of anyone who could put Lawrence through the floorboards.

        Ernest: Maybe. Victor couldn’t decide. He hadn’t done anything wrong precisely, but Victor was still paranoid about the fact that his younger brother could so easily subdue him. Plus, Henry trusted him too much, loved him too much. What if…

        Victor shifted uncomfortably in his chair and squeezed his eyes shut. Coping. He was coping. Bad thoughts were just thoughts. Totally not a plan he was going to into action.

        “It’s just for an hour, Victor.” His father said and Victor barely resisted the urge to take the stampler off the reception desk and slam it over his head.

        Alphonse Frankenstein: 100% Never Allowed to be near Henry again. Lied. Locked Victor up. Let Henry be nearly killed by that monster. This was his fault. Or, well, it was Lawrence’s fault but Lawrence was in a hospital somewhere trying to figure out how to drink his meals through a straw so for all intents and purposes, Alphonse was to blame.

        If he’d just listened to Victor none of this would have happened. They could have kept Henry safe together, but he’d betrayed them both. Who’s to say that Alphonse hadn’t even intended this to happen? That didn’t make sense, of course, considering all the trouble Alphonse had gone through to get Henry out in the first place.

        But he hadn’t let Henry stay. After Lawrence attacked him for being gay, broke the bottle over his head, Alphonse had sent him away. By the time Alphonse had figured out what had happened and went to get him from Bastion, Henry had been out in the cold for hours with the blood still drying on his cheeks. And he’d made Victor stay in the house, stay with William, when his father had taken Henry the first time. He’d wanted to send Victor away permanently too, back to the psych ward.

        All his protection, all his rules, all his damnable pretenses of care. Alphonse had never cared about Victor and it seemed he’d never actually cared about Henry too.

        “When did you burn yourself?” Alphonse's voice floated through the shell of anger once more. A beat. “Is that what happened to my study’s door handle?”

        “Shut up.” Victor muttered.

        Alphonse hesitated again. “Would you let me put some gauze on it when we get home?”

        “If you ever touch me again, I’ll cut your heart out and eat it in front of Ernest,” Victor said, uncaring of who could hear him. This was a therapist’s waiting room. He was among his people here. The woman beside him scootched her chair away.

        “Victor,” Alphonse’s voice sounded very tired and Victor was glad, “I thought-”

        “You were wrong. You were wrong and I was right.” Victor plowed over him. “Why didn’t you listen to me? Why do you never listen to me? You never listen and look what you’ve done to Henry now.”

        Alphonse didn’t respond to that. When he sighed, the sound was practically drenched in guilt. “I know you’re just saying all this because you’re stressed and scared.” He finally said.

        “Nope.” Victor made sure to meet Alphonse’s eyes directly, gathering every fractured butchery of hate he’d ever felt behind them. “You hurt Henry. I’m never going to forgive you, Alphonse.”

        He didn’t offer Alphonse the chance to refute the claim as he stood up. Even if he couldn’t leave the building, he didn’t have to stay in the waiting room and he still had exactly forty-one minutes left to wait for Henry. He grabbed his coat and pushed out of the room. Alphonse, however, did not seem to pick up on his obvious desire to be alone and followed him. Or, maybe he did and he just didn’t care. He probably thought Victor was going to do something reckless like shove a razor blade through his arm. As if Victor would do that to Henry right now.

        “Victor,” Alphonse said, calmly, too calmly, as he followed Victor to the elevator. Too calm and too tired and too much.

        Victor didn’t turn around. “Didn’t I tell you to piss off?” He growled.

        “I’m your father,” Alphonse said. “I’m not legally allowed to do that.”

        “I’m an adult,” Victor shot back, pressing the call button rapidly. “You can do whatever you want as long as you’re not intending to murder or assault me. Example A: last night.”

        “Well. I don’t want to piss off either.” Alphonse finally decided on. “Can you please come back to the waiting room?”

        “Sure,” Victor said breezily. “When Henry gets out. Then you can drive us home and I’ll let him rest while I make plans to go back to the apartment with Liz.” Even if Lizzie had abandoned Henry, she was still trustworthy enough to stay with a few nights. More trustworthy than Alphonse in any case.

        Alphonse still wasn’t leaving, though, and Victor was quickly running out of patience so he tried to search for the worst spew of insults he could throw at the other man, confident that he was unhinged enough to be able to make them land. Something about mom, something about Liz’s dad, something about his bad parenting. Something about wanting to kill Ernest would work but Victor felt bad even thinking about that now. He settled on delivering a blow by blow of his first night in the psych ward post-Ingolstadt but stopped in his tracks as a sudden exhaustion overwhelmed him.

        “Why did you lock the study?” He asked instead, already despising how weak his voice sounded. “I needed to be with Henry.”

       “ I was afraid you were overrunning yourself.” His father said evenly. “I know how connected your and Henry’s emotional states are and the last week...month…” he looked helpless for a moment, “Few years…”

        “Have been rough.” Victor filled in. Alphonse really did look pathetic now, all watery eyed and drooped. His dad looked worn down.

        “I don’t want to keep doing this,” Victor said, finding his firmness.

        His dad glanced to one side, sudden anger rising. “Trust me, Victor,” he said lowly, “Lawrence is never going to see the light of day again.”

        “I know,” Victor said. “I meant this.” He gestured between them and then around to the building. “I’m done.”

        His dad frowned at him in confusion. “What do you mean, done? With therapy?” He asked nervously.

        Victor had no idea what he really meant. “Just done,” he supplied but obviously that wasn’t enough. He searched his dad’s pallor face and smiled reluctantly. “You’re going to end up looking like me, if you’re not careful, old man.”

        His dad didn’t smile. “Victor, what did you mean by done?” He insisted.

        “Done,” Victor said and the words felt softer. “No more locked doors, no more ironclad rules, no more doing what’s best for me. I’m done. You’ve done a good job protecting me, Dad. We made it this far, miracle of miracles. Now you’ve got to let me go and so I can try to do this on my own.” He leaned back against the wall. “I’ll tell you if I need help.”

        His dad grimaced as if in physical pain. “I just-” he started but cut himself short. Desperation hung around him like a haze. “Bad things keep happening to my kids.”

        “And they’ll keep happening,” Victor said. “That’s life. Also, like, at least fifty percent of your kids have brains that routinely try to kill them so. Pulled a bad genetic/trauma card on that one.” Victor paused, trying to sort his words into the correct order through another more distant wave of paranoia and fear. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting for the next big disaster. And I can’t spend the rest of my life watching _you_ prep for the next one. I’m done. It’s over. Lawrence is dead and Henry is safe and Ernest has Jascha and I’m done. I’m tired of being scared. If I promise to tell you when I need help, can I please…” Victor had run out of words. He wanted to get back to Henry so bad, it was a physical ache in his chest, but he needed to finish this first. “If I promise,” he began again slowly, “To tell you when I need help - before it becomes a crisis - can I please just be your son instead of your problem.”

        “Victor,” his dad pulled him into a hasty hug, “You’ve always been my son.” Victor relaxed against him, letting his cheek rest on his shoulder. “And I do promise. No more locks.”

        “Good,” Victor sighed. A small silence settled, broken only by the hum of fluorescent lights. Victor shifted in his father’s arms. “Dad?” He asked.

        “Yes?”

        “I need some help.”

        They talked it through, with Victor curbing the worst of his ramblings into a list of points that his dad could dispute. Liz had left because she had work near the university, not because she hated Henry. Ernest was completely trustworthy. What had happened with Henry at fourteen had been entirely Lawrence’s fault, not theirs. And no, Victor, violins were not inherently untrustworthy instruments. By the time Henry emerged from Konig’s office, Victor was able to greet him with a more earnest calm.

        “How was it?” He asked softly as he retrieved Henry’s jacket from the chair.

        “Good, I think,” Henry replied, as if confused. “Good.”

        “That’s good,” Victor said. He shot a discrete look at Konig, who smiled and tapped his wrist. An hour on the dot. Victor hated that man almost as much as he was grateful to him. “Are you ready to go home?” He asked Henry.

        “Yeah.” Henry rubbed absently at his throat, fingers brushing the deep purple bruises ringing the skin. “I’m ready.”

        “Okay,” Victor paused, considering. “Are you going to come back?”

        “Yeah. I think I will,” Henry said softly. He still sounded like a wreck, strained vocal cords and all, but Victor thought he maybe looked a bit less frantic. Or perhaps he hoped.

        He wrapped an arm around Henry’s middle. “Great,” he said, “Now I can spend every one of my sessions grilling Konig for information on you.”

        Henry smiled weakly, a thing which didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s definitely against doctor-patient confidentiality.”

        “When has that ever mattered to me before?” Victor smirked. “My disregard for the rules is what makes me such a great doctor.”

        “And it’s why I’ve been practicing malpractice defense since you announced you wanted to be a doctor at twelve,” His dad interjected. He placed a steady hand on Henry’s shoulders and the final fractures of Victor’s misplaced anger disintegrated as Henry looked at his dad with complete trust. “Ready to go?”

        “Yes,” Henry said.

        Victor still sat in the backseat with him on the way home. Even if he was feeling better about things with Dad, he still wasn’t quite content to let Henry out his sight or arms. As they drove, Victor let Henry bundle tightly against his side and ran his hand in comforting circles over his back. “We’re okay,” Victor promised as Henry shifted to lean more fully against his heart. “You’re okay. We’re together and that’s what matters. You’re alive and that’s all that matters.” Victor kissed the top of Henry’s head. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you and I’ll never love anyone the way I love you.” He let himself settle down in the seat, courting flashes of relief and weak happiness as Henry wrapped more fully into him. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Victor breathed the words into Henry’s hair. “I’m better for having known you.”

        It was a poor defense to the horrors of all Henry had seen, all Victor had put him through whether intentionally or not. It was barely even a starting place after last night. But it was a start.

        Henry looked up at him for a moment, eyes a torn war of emotion and depth set against amber but still very much his own. The same eyes Victor had fallen in love with at the age of six and the age of sixteen and the age of twenty-three. “I love you too.” Henry said with certainty and that was enough.

 

* * *

 

        Ernest was sad. Which made sense. Henry had been attacked, which was stressful. He’d watched Jascha’s dad beat a man within inches of death. Both of those were good reasons to be sad. They were not, however, the reason Ernest wasn’t getting out of bed. Or at least, they were some of the reason. But not as much as Jascha would have expected.

        “Jascha? Ernest?” His mother called from outside the door. “Are you still sleeping?”

        “Ernest, can I let her in?” Jascha whispered, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. Ernest nodded, so he got up and opened the door. “Hi, Mom,” he said awkwardly.

        “Hi, sweetie.” She smiled brightly despite the fact that he knew she and his father had been up pretty much all night talking to Alphonse about the legal ramifications of his father giving a man possibly lasting brain damage.“How did you two sleep?”

        “Bad,” Jascha said quietly, glancing back to Ernest. He was curled up around the cat, who was more than happy to benefit from his sudden depression.

        “Because of what happened with Henry?” She asked gently. Jascha shook his head.

        “Because of what happened with Victor,” he said. “And what happened with Henry. Obviously.”

        “May I come in?” His mother’s green eyes were gentle and welcoming. Jascha nodded and opened the door the rest of the way for her. “Oh my god, is that a kitten?!” She beamed at him. Maisie looked up and yawned.

        “Her name is Maisie,” Jascha said, resuming the task of holding Ernest. “It’s like ‘ _mažai_ ’ in Lithuanian, but American.”

        “She’s very cute,” his mother cooed. Her smile turned slightly serious. “Ernest, may I sit beside you and Maisie?” She asked politely.

        “Yeah,” Ernest said miserably, sliding so that she’d have room. Ernest was now sandwiched between her and Jascha. And Maisie, who was now seated in his mother’s lap.

        “What’s the matter?” She asked, voice soft as down. “May I touch you?”

        “Yeah, that’s okay,” Ernest whispered, shifting so his head was in her lap and he could pet Maisie. Jascha smiled as his mom stroked Ernest’s hair. “...I’m just scared.”

        “That makes sense,” she said quietly. “You’re safe now, though.”

        “Not if Victor is back to being...Victor,” Ernest said grimly.

        “And what does that mean?” His mother asked. Jascha hugged Ernest a little tighter.

        “He and I don’t have the best history...It’s kinda a long story,” Ernest sighed. “I thought it was better. I guess I was wrong.” his voice got tight.

        “Would you like to tell me about it?” She asked, twirling his curls lightly between her fingers. “We have some time before your father comes back with Victor and Henry, and William is happily learning Russian with Lukas.”

        “Are you sure?” Ernest said, sitting up. Jascha sat up with him, letting him lean against him. “It’s, like, totally insane.”

        His mom smiled her prettiest smile, all warmth and reassurance. “You’re practically my son-in-law. I’m happy to know as much about you as you’ll let me,” she said. Ernest smiled back tiredly and nodded.

        “From the beginning?” He asked tentatively. Jascha had to work to hide his interest. Even he didn’t know everything that happened; just that something bad had happened. More than once. And that it was bad enough that Ernest nearly left home for good.

        “If you’re willing,” his mother said, running her delicate fingers over Maisie’s silky fur.

        “Well…” Ernest looked up at Jascha, who smiled encouragingly. Jascha found his hand and held it gently. “It started when I was four. Victor is only, like, a year and a half older than me, so he was five. He, uh. Got into reading about poisonous plants. And, like, aconite apparently grows here, and he found some in the yard and convinced me to, you know,” Ernest shrugged. His mother look horrified.

        “How are you alright?” She asked.

        “Mom called an ambulance and they pumped my stomach. I also only ate one flower.” Ernest said bitterly. “He said he did it because he was curious.”

        “Oh, sweetheart,” she said sympathetically.

        “It’s okay,” Ernest smiled sadly. “That one wasn’t the worst one.”

        “What else?” Jascha asked cautiously, leaning his head on Ernest’s shoulder.

        “There was the knife incident when I was eight,” Ernest paused. “Victor wanted a calculator I was using, threatened me with a knife, got angry and lost it. He lashed at me and got my arm,” Ernest rolled up the sleeve of his t-shirt. Sure enough, there was an old scar there about two inches long. “That one screwed me up for a while,” he said sadly.

        “I would imagine so,” his mother said quietly. “He tends to get violent, then?”

        “He...tends to lose touch with what he thinks and what he does,” Ernest said miserably. “After that he stopped actually hurting me. Like, physically,” Ernest ground his teeth. When he spoke again he was crying. “He said he wished I’d died instead of our mom. When I was eleven. Then when I was thirteen, all the shit happened with Henry’s dad, and Victor was upset and I tried to help and he said...well. That it should have been me. Since I had a friend at the time that I, like, cuddled with sometimes and Victor liked making fun of us for being gay,” Ernest took a shaky breath. Both Jascha and his mom held him. “He said that he wished Lawrence could have taken it out on me instead. Broken the bottle over my head. Murdered me instead of Henry,” Ernest’s shoulders shook even as Jascha held them.

        “Ernest…” his mother said quietly. “I am so, so sorry that these things happened.”

        Ernest gave a hollow laugh and looked up at Jascha. “It’s, like, no wonder I couldn’t come out as gay, huh?”

        “It makes sense,” Jascha whispered, kissing his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

        “It’s okay,” Ernest sighed. “I mean, obviously it isn’t. He came home from Germany and was completely insane for a while. I woke up one night to him holding a box cutter to my throat, telling me he knew I was conspiring against him and that I was…” Ernest cut himself off, giving a pained laugh. “In retrospect, no wonder I thought I’d die if I was gay. He told me that I was like him, and I’d end up being some older guy’s bitch before I graduated high school,” Ernest paused, choking on his words. “He- he said it would be a mercy. Killing me before it happened.”

        “Ernest…” Jascha said, struck dumb with horror. If he’d known about any of this he never would have pushed Ernest so hard when he had his seemingly-homophobic panic attacks back at the frat. He wrapped his arms around Ernest’s neck and kiss his cheek again, nuzzling his neck. He relaxed as he felt his mother stroke his shoulder.

        “You’re safe now, Ernest,” his mother said authoritatively. “I won’t let anything happen to you or Jascha. Ever. Nor will Lukas or your father.”

        “I know,” Ernest said softly. “I have Jascha, too. He broke a guy’s nose for me.”

        Jascha felt his blood pressure rise. “Mom, I-”

        “I heard about that from Alphonse,” she said lightly. She was...beaming at him? “I’m so proud of you, Jascha. Standing up for the people you love is admirable.”

        “Cool,” Jascha breathed.

        “Were there any other incidents?” His mom asked.

        “Yeah…” Ernest said. “One more big one. I tore my ACL a little more than a year ago, and Victor...He didn’t really do anything. He just, like, got off on me finally being, like, suicidal. When it looked like I might not get better enough to keep playing,” Ernest bit his lip. “He said it was justice. That I deserved to feel bad, since he’d felt bad all his life.” Ernest drew a shaky sigh. “After that I left. I didn’t come back until this winter, and even then...he was crazy. Called me and Jascha awful things. But then he, like, got a little better and finally apologized,” now Ernest was really crying, and he hid his face in his hands. “And I believed him! Like a fucking idiot!”

        “Shh, shh,” his mother pulled Ernest against her, rocking him. Jascha stroked his thigh just above the knee in gentle circles. “It’s okay.”

        “I just can’t have things go back,” Ernest keened. “I can’t do it again. I’d rather die.”

        “No you wouldn’t,” Jascha said, only realizing after that he probably shouldn’t have. “I don’t want you to.”

        “Everything will be okay, Ernest,” his mother said quietly. “I don’t believe that he was serious last night. He’ll be home soon, and he might apologize.”

        “What if he doesn’t?” Ernest moaned. “What if he never does, or waits another year?”

        “Sweetie, why don’t we wait and see?” His mother said gently. “If he doesn’t apologize today, I can talk to him. Or Alphonse can,” she smiled. “But I think he will, since Henry is safe.”

        “Okay,” Ernest forced himself back together. Jascha snuggled against him and found his hand, kissing it several times.

        “In the meantime, I think we should all go and make a fun surprise for William,” she said brightly. “I have secret intel from Lukas that he’s a fan of chocolate. Henry, too.”

        “What?” Jascha asked, confused by the sudden change of topic. Ernest, however, perked up and his crying stopped.

        “I may have stress baked a cake last night with your father after he had a bad dream,” Jashca’s mother smiled at him, blushing slightly. “Well, really this morning. Around four.”

        “Why…?” Ernest asked.

        “Dad has dreams?” Jascha asked quickly.

        “Your father isn’t a robot, sweetheart,” she said gently. “And he had a very hard childhood and apparently beating a man’s face in brought up some old memories.”

        “So you baked a cake?” Ernest asked.

        “Well, he wanted to drive to his workshop, but I told him he couldn’t take your car without your permission and he was forbidden from waking you up to ask,” she smiled. “So yes. We baked a cake. But it isn’t frosted yet. Would you like to help decorate it?”

        “Mrs. Simonis, you’re going to-”

        “Kassia, Ernest. Please just call me Kassia,” she smiled warmly.

        “Kassia. You’re going to make us all addicted to sugar.” Ernest smiled.

        “Excellent,” she said lightly. “Victor could use some extra pounds, and so could Henry. William is a growing boy and he needs all the food he can get.”

        “Fair,” Ernest nodded. “Jascha, do you want to decorate a cake?”

        “Sure,” Jascha smiled because Ernest was smiling.

        “Lets draw cats on it,” Ernest said, scooping Maisie up and zipping her into his sweater with him. “Maybe like a congrats on therapy thing too? For Henry?”  


       "Maybe just the cats, darling,” his mother said with a laugh. “It might be too soon for the other thing.”

       “I can’t draw,” Jascha frowned. “Can you?”

       “No,” his mom and Ernest said at the same time. All three of them laughed. By the time they were done with the cake it had a very questionable looking cat on it, surrounded by little music notes that really looked more like blobs than anything else. They hid it in the pantry, waiting casually until Henry would come home.

 


	54. General Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry speaks Lithuanian. Victor talks about his past. Jascha doesn’t leave the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thanks for sticking with us so far! Your comments/kudos/support mean so much!

        When Henry walked into the house, everyone was acting weird, and not the type of weird where they just witnessed him having two major breakdowns in the past week and an attempted murder. He leaned against Victor’s shoulder. Warmth and stability and fabricated calm.

        “Why do all of you look like you’ve hidden a body in the basement?” Victor asked. Now, Henry wouldn’t have said it, but he was thinking the exact same thing.

        “We did not murder anyone,” Ernest said, his words oddly placed. He looked exhausted, more so than anyone else other than maybe Lukas. Something about him looked wrong. Grief stricken, even.

        Victor. Henry didn’t know how he knew, but he did. Victor would apologize, he had to. He promised. Henry slumped harder against Victor. Alphonse hovered somewhere behind them and William lurked in the doorway.

        “Hey, bud, you doing okay?” Henry asked as he took a few steps forward. William took a deep breath a practically tackled Henry.

        “They told me you were going to be safe.” He wasn’t crying, not anymore.

        “I’m going to be safe now, for real this time.” Henry tried to smiled, but he still felt the twinge of guilt for making William so upset. No, no. He had to remember. He didn’t make William upset. William was upset because he was scared for Henry, not of him. He could do this. Mind over matter and all that jazz.

        “Lukas taught me some phrases in Russian,” William said tearily.

        “Oh, that’s exciting. Can I hear some? I’ve always wanted to learn Russian.” Henry sat on the couch and vaguely noticed when most of the family left the room.

        “Let’s see,” William hummed. “Ты злой человек, и я не буду подчиняться тебе.”

        “And what does that mean?” Henry asked.

        “You are an evil man and I won’t submit to you.”

        “Okay, seems topical,” he laughed. “What else do you have?”

        “Долой диктатора is down with the dictator. Я борюсь за свободу своих сверстников is: I fight for the freedom of my peers.”

        “So Lukas is just covering all the essentials, huh.”

        “Yup! I will bake a cake is: Я испеку торт.”

        “Perfect, what else could you possibly need to know,” Henry smiled as the small boy nuzzled into his side. Kassia appeared in the doorway, lurking much in the way William just had.

        “I have a surprise for you two, but I need you to close your eyes,” She said, sunshine filling her voice.

        “But it’s not my birthday or Christmas anymore,” William said as he held Henry’s hand and closed his eyes. Henry followed suite.

        “Okay, open.”

        There was a very large, very chocolate cake laid out on the coffee table. It looked like a child had tried to decorate it, but William was the only child in the house and he was a much, much better artist than that. As far as Henry could tell, it was a cat and maybe some lines. Music notes? Music notes would be more thematically appropriate.

        “It’s so...cute,” Henry gushed. “Who made it?”

        “Kassia and I baked it last night and Jascha and Ernest decorated it today,” Lukas said.

        Alphonse quickly served everyone a large slice and the room dissolved into gentle conversation. Henry wasn’t sure there had been so much sugar in the Frankenstein household in ever. Two cakes in two days. A miracle.

         _“_ _ Jascha, you are very lucky, _ _”_ Lukas said in Lithuanian. Henry immediately cued in. _“_ _ Ernest is the much prettier Frankenstein sibling. Victor looks a little bit like a slime monster. I feel so sorry for Henry. He deserves someone much better.” _

“Dad--” Jascha tried to say.

         _“_ _ No no, it’s true. Don’t be humble. With those curls and those freckles, I see why you’ve decided to make him your partner. Victor looks like he climbed out the Vasyugan.” _ Lukas casually took a bite out of his cake.

        _“_ _ Hey,” _  Henry answered in Lithuanian. Lukas’ pale face got even paler. _“_ _ Victor might be a slime creature, but he’s my slime creature and I love him.” _

        “Jascha, you need to get friends who don’t have weirdly specialized interests in eastern European languages. I need to be able to talk to you in secret,” Lukas huffed, trying to hide his blush.

        “I can’t help you there,” Jascha shrugged.

        “My Russian isn’t that good,” Ernest cut in. “Henry’s just weird.”

        “What can I say, I had a strange childhood,” Henry smiled and leaned against William. The cake was divine and still tasted slightly of honey, despite it’s definitely chocolate aesthetic.

        Henry completely shifted focus to the cat. It had only been what? A week? Maybe two? And Maisie already seemed like she was getting bigger. When she wasn’t tucked into Ernest’s sweater, she was mewling at Ernest for food or causing generalized chaos. Currently, she was sitting on Henry’s lap affectionately digging her claws into his thigh.

        “Soft cat. Black cat. Sharp cat,” he said under his breath and it made William giggle. Success. Victor squished against Henry and gently pet Maisie on the top of her head. She purred. Double success. Henry rested his head against Victor’s and felt the sudden, intense need to sleep, even though it was only 12:46 in the afternoon.

        “I think I’m going to go upstairs,” Henry said as he ruffled William’s hair. “Thank you so much for the cake. It was lovely.”

        Henry spent exactly 34.4 seconds alone in their room before Victor came to join him. Henry was in the middle of changing into pajama pants and a t-shirt. They were Victor’s, so they were a little too short, but they were soft and good. Victor came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his middle and kissed his cheek.

        “You called me a slime monster,” he said as he nuzzled into Henry’s hair.

        “How could you tell?” Henry asked. He spun around and kissed Victor’s forehead.

        “The phrase _‘_ _ gleivinės monstras _ _’_ doesn’t really leave much to the imagination, even if I don’t speak Lithuanian.” Victor kissed Henry’s lips. “Am I really a slime creature?”

        “The slimiest,” Henry pressed his chest against Victor’s. The steady rise and fall of his breathing was nearly intoxicating. He sat on the bed and let Victor roll on top of him, clinging to his chest like it was the only thing that could keep him tethered to this dimension.

        Victor kissed the bridge of Henry’s nose, right over the scar from the accident. Henry scrunched his nose.

        “What’s wrong?” Victor asked.

        "I’m the only poet in the world with a grisly facial scar,” Henry huffed and smiled. Victor laid his head against his chest.

        “I think it makes you look hardcore,” Victor said.

        “I’m the least hardcore person on the face of this planet and if you think otherwise, you’re completly delusional.” Henry ran his hands through Victor’s hair. It was clean and fluffy.

        “Plus, it isn’t that grisly,” Victor sighed.

        “I guess not,” Henry admitted. He could do what Dr. Konig asked of him. The scar simply was. It wasn’t a reminder of his own rash incompetence.

        “What do you think of Konig?” Victor asked.

        “I like him a lot. Something about how he seems to not really care sets me entirely at ease,” Henry said.

        “So you don’t think he’s a wizard?”

        “Oh no, he definitely is. I think it’s just a little less dramatic with me because I know exactly where I went wrong.”

        “You didn’t actually go wrong anywhere,” Victor said as he traced his fingers lazily across his arm.

        “I know, that’s one of the things I’m working on. It’s hard to believe it sometimes, but being aware that I tend to do  _ that _  helps.”

        “I’m really glad,” Victor said.

        “Yeah, real therapy is pretty great, not like…” Henry trailed away.

        “Yeah, anything is better than that monster.”

        “Talking really helps. I guess I really didn’t realize how much I bottle things up.” Henry kissed the top of Victor’s head.

        “Yeah. It helps.” Victor nuzzled into Henry’s chest. He was soft and warm.

        “Victor,” something shot into his head. “You really don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to.”

        “Yeah?” Victor asked. Henry felt the air of the room shift.

        “What happened at Ingolstadt?”

 

* * *

  

        Of all the ‘you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to’ questions Henry could have asked, Ingolstadt was the last one Victor had expected. It threw him hard enough that he swore he left his body for a moment. A blissful reprieve, as the second he re-entered his corporeal form, he was bombarded by the sum of every avoidance technique he knew at once, combining into a mess of incomprehensible nonsense that left him frozen as a 404 error. Victor stared at Henry; beautiful, honest, caring Henry; calmly taking in his amber eyes, his light smattering of freckles, the way his hair fell just a bit too long; a bit on the shaggy side from a month or so of neglect.

        Then he shoved him away.

        “No.” Victor said as he pushed himself back into the corner of the bed. Or he hoped he said. It was impossible to tell with the scorpions crawling out the back of his throat, squirming and slick with stomach acid.

        Henry’s face twisted into something like disappointment, though the expression was quickly chased by sympathy. “That’s okay.” Henry said softly. Victor didn’t miss how the other kept his body open as he sat up, a silent invitation for him to dive back into Henry’s arms and forget this had ever happened. The plain display of forgiveness only made him feel worse.

        “Why?” He asked, leaning farther back against the foot of the bed. He couldn’t let Henry touch him. The scorpions were crawling over his skin, spreading corrosive acid everywhere their shells touched, and if Victor let anyone else near him, they would strike.

        Henry shifted under Victor’s intense stare. “Just bottling things up...and Konig…” Henry shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “It reminded me. The last month or so reminded me of...things.”

        Things. Things like screaming fits and psych wards and Ernest and box cutters and Victor in his purest form, without any kind of self-control or remorse. He didn’t want Henry to be reminded of that. He didn’t want to be reminded of that anymore than he normally was. Ingolstadt was just supposed to be a dirty word, a scale for how crazy Victor was acting, a reminder that he wasn’t allowed to get that bad ever again. And he hadn’t. He hadn’t. Wasn’t that enough?

        “Since talking about my past with people has been helpful, I thought...” Henry let the words hang. He held out his out his arms further. “We don’t have to talk about it.” He said carefully. Carefully. Waiting.

        Victor searched futility for the best words to put Henry back at ease. It was like trying to find a particular piece of hay in a haystack. “My dad knows what happened.” He said. “Ernest too. A bit. I told him a bit because he was messed up over the frat and I was trying to be, I don’t know. Helpful.”

        Henry’s gaze narrowed minutely, apparently against his will. “How does Ingolstadt relate to...what happened at the frat?” He spat the word frat like a curse. Victor curled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

        “Bad things.” He said in elaboration.  _ “Very bad things.” _

        A pause. Henry sighed. “Victor, I’m good with languages but my German is a little lacking.” He bit his lip. “You don’t have to tell me. I promise I won’t be upset.”

        So many outs and Victor could take any of them. He could just lay back down next to Henry, wait for this panic to dissolve, and continue on as if nothing had ever passed. As if Ingolstadt was just a name for nightmares. Henry wouldn’t ask again, not if Victor made him promise not to. He wouldn’t be upset. Victor’s insides were going to spill out and he wrapped himself tighter to prevent the seams in his gut from tearing. He could stop. He hadn’t even begun, not really, and he wasn’t allowed to talk about it, he wasn’t supposed to scream or they’d disturb the others so he had to take it quietly-

        But Victor wasn’t in Ingolstadt. Victor was in his bedroom, at home, with Henry, the man he loved, the man he had always loved, the man he wanted to one day marry. How much could he risk? Did Henry need to know? How much, how could he, how-

        “I need you to look at me.” Victor commanded through clenched teeth. “Don’t look away.”

        Henry’s brow was furrowed in helpless confusion but he obeyed Victor without question, leaning forward and keeping his eyes purposefully wide. Victor took a deep breath and reached around him to turn on the bedside lamp, taking care not to brush against Henry’s arm. The amber sparkled near to gold in the artificial light.

        Victor made himself to take a gasp of the thickened air and hold it. He was going to do this in one go or he’d never be able to again.

        “His name was Henri.”

        “Henry?” His Henry asked.

        “No, not you.” Victor kept his eyes locked on Henry’s, watching concern and interest and fear roll over each other like thunder clouds before a storm. “Henri Brandt. He was a man I met in Ingolstadt. Or, well, knew. We were roommates. And we worked together.”

        Victor paused, waiting for Henry to ask more questions but he remained deathly silent. This was entirely Victor’s story to tell it seemed. He wasn’t sure if that made it more nerve wracking or less.

        “He was…” Victor hesitated, shifting through the mess of tangled emotions circling the man’s name, fighting to keeping his brain from hitting self-destruct too soon. “Nice.” He finally decided. “Charming. Kind of dorky but in a good way. He was a part of the lab I was working in but he was a grad student where I was a first-year undergrad so he was more my TA than my co-worker. He was, like, eleven years older than me. And he, uh. He was interested in me. Like, as more than a friend. And I was...well, I guess was interested too…” Victor faltered as Henry’s eyes grew sharper. He hastened to answer the unasked question. “I knew I had feelings for you at that point. I knew I was bi but I didn’t really...I was having a hard time getting my head around it and I felt terrible about, I don’t know...leading you on? Or...I didn’t know what I was doing. I  still  don’t understand what my thought process was but one night Henri was walking me back home from lab and he asked me out and I just kinda...grabbed at the chance. He was so nice and handsome and I figured, hey, here’s my opportunity to figure things out. I’m in a foreign country, there’s no one here who knows me, I can test the waters and see if I’m really bi, if my feelings for Henry...for you...were just confused friendship feelings or, you know. Something else.”

        Keep focused. Only focus on Henry’s eyes. Amber, soft, real, worried. Always so worried.

        Victor twisted his hands into the bedsheets and barely resisted the urge to run away and never come back. “So I went on the date with Henri. And it went...great. Honestly. Henri was smart. He could keep up with everything I said and turn it back on its heels. He challenged me...flattered me…” He wished he could take his eyes off Henry as the other’s grew more hurt with every word.

        “He flattered me too much.” Victor tried to stress. “He, uh, told me I was beautiful and a genius. That I was a great mind in the making.” A bitter laugh. “Stoked my teenage ego to the point of lunacy, honestly. And I...” He chewed his lip. Henry nodded encouragingly. “Well, I guess at some point I kind of fell in love with him.”

        The air in the room turned clouded with the weight of the words and Victor almost wanted to snatch them back, even if they were the truth. Especially since they were the truth. He wanted to bite his tongue off, he wanted to jump back in time and shoot seventeen-year-old him point blank. One of those options was impossible. The other would scar Henry for life.

        Victor plowed on, voice still shaky and now growing fragile. Fragile and pathetic. Pathetic. “I don’t know if it was actually love. It didn’t feel like this.” Victor motioned to Henry without touching him. “But it felt like love to me and I got…” Complacent? Obedient? Like a dog. Like a bitch. “I wanted him to love me as much as I loved him. That’s when things turned...bad.”

        “Bad how?” Henry asked, apparently through with his vow of silence. In the quiet of the room, the edge in his voice was ragged as a broken blade. Victor bundled himself tighter against the end of the bed.

        “He wanted me to change my hours at the lab so that I could work more with him. I was happy to do so, I didn’t like working morning shift with the other students, but it meant that I really didn’t have much...any time away from him. And then there was food and stuff.”

        “Food?” Henry looked confused for a second before comprehension dawned and his eyes flashed dark. “You came back from Ingolstadt so thin.”

        “Yeah, well.” Victor wished Henry wasn’t so expressive. It made talking so much harder, forced him to remember who was hearing about all his shames. “I gained some weight when I first was over there and Henri kept mentioning that he liked it when I looked thinner so...yeah. I took that one too far.”

        “Victor.” Henry said sadly.

        “Food.” Victor listed over him. “Lab. Uh, he wanted me to stop calling home. That was a big one. He said that no one here would ever be able to understand me like he did.” That comment had stung deep, mostly because it had been true. Or, at least, it had seemed true at the time. So much nagging, so much overprotectiveness from his father. Attention given only when he misbehaved. Victor had been so oblivious to what a little monster he was. He nodded to Henry. “He didn’t like it when I called you especially. I think he thought you were competition or something. Called you ‘the other Henry.’ Then again...” he trailed off, guiltily, “so did I for a while.”

        Victor swallowed against a dry throat. “Then there was sex.”

        It would be easier to leave that one alone but Henry seemed to latch onto it, leaning close, too close for Victor’s comfort. “What about sex?” Henry pushed, voice raised several octaves higher than normal.

        “Nothing terrible.” Victor assured him quietly. The answer didn’t appear to satisfy Henry, however, and he was staring at him now, bright, bright amber and worry, worry, worry. “Just...you know” Victor stumbled, “...sometimes I wasn’t in the mood and we’d, like, do things anyway. ‘Cause he wanted to. He was very...rough. Dominating.” His own voice sounded absolutely pitiful now and it shouldn’t have been. Victor was mad, he’d been mad. He was so mad at Henri for forcing all of that on him. He’d been a fucking kid, after all. But Victor also felt terrified for no discernible reason beyond the fact that Henry was there and glowering at him with such...anger? Disgust? It was impossible to tell who it was aimed at. “I’m sorry.” Victor finally said.

        “What?” Henry’s nose crinkled as he sat straighter. “Victor, I’m not- I’m not mad at you. I could never be mad at you. I’m horrified at that- that fucking monster you were living with.” He sounded livid and his eyes seemed to burn with lightning. “Why on earth would I be mad at you?”

        “Because I asked him to.” Victor insisted. “You don’t understand, I asked him to do all those things to me. I  _wanted_   the sex and- and the food, that was all me. Particularly the sex. I was ‘practically humping him like a bitch in heat.’”

        “Did he tell you that?” Henry asked sharply.

        “I…” Victor finally broke his stare as Henry’s gaze grew too furious to handle. “It was his fault but also mine. I went along with things and I should have been smarter. I let him ruin me.” He tucked his face into his curled legs. “I understand if you want to break up with me.”

        “Why would I want to break up with you?” Henry sounded mystified beneath the rage. “You didn’t- nothing that happened ‘ruined’ you, Victor. Nothing he did ruined you. You’re wonderful.”

        Victor shrugged. If Henry didn’t understand, it was unlikely that Victor could make him. “I got back at him.” He continued on. “He tried to break up with me in the Spring, said that I was too young for him, that I was a distraction. That he’d lied when he said he loved me.” Victor choked out a laugh. “He thought of me more as a whore than a boyfriend, I guess. I let him treat me like a whore…” A small stab of sick pleasure twisted through his gut like a knife and brought a grin to his face. “I got back at him, though. I told him I wanted to him to fuck me one last time and while he was distracted, I tried to cut his dick off. I didn’t succeed entirely.” He sighed mournfully. “I only got a third of the way through and a few stabs through his hand before some professors caught us. I wanted to take his fingers off. And his dick. That way he wouldn’t be able to hurt me ever again.”

        Victor set his head on top of his knee and took in Henry’s taunt face. His hands were shaking and balled in fists and there were tears in the corners of his eyes. The sight made Victor’s chest ached as his guts finally spilled out his loosened seems. “You know the rest. With Ernest and the ward and everything.” And for some ungodly reason, that was the thing that made him start crying. “I tried to kill Ernest.” Victor hid his face again as huge sobs wracked his system, sending his scattering mind into pure overload. “Oh, god, Henry, I- I actually thought I was doing him a favor. I thought that if I got rid of him then he wouldn’t- that it would never- and it happened anyways!”

        “It’s okay,” whatever weird anger had overtaken Henry seemed to melt away as Victor broke down, “it’s okay.” Henry took a hard breath and scooted forward cautiously. “It’s over, you apologized. You’re never going to hurt Ernest again. And Brandt will never hurt you again either.” He laid a gentle hand over Victor’s knee.

        Victor stiffened for half a moment, doing the quick mental math of how much he wanted to be held vs. how evil and horrible he was and how little he deserved comfort vs. the pin-prick crawling that still settled over his skin and in the bones and between the marrow. He met Henry’s eyes once more, just to check that they were still amber instead of Henri’s lecherous hazel, before diving into his outstretched arms.

        Henry settled back against the headboard immediately, petting Victor’s hair just a bit too hard and rocking him just a bit too fast. Even his hushes had a weird edge to them but Victor was too busy shoving down unpleasant memories to care. Hands on his hips and along his back and on his ass, a dick at the opening to his-

        He curled into Henry’s lap and let Henry bend over him, a protective shield against the world. Some part of him was furious at this behavior. It had been six years since Ingolstadt and he should be over it. Another part of him, however, was terrified that Henry was going to leave him; that he’d stand up and look down at Victor and call him weak and pathetic and horrible for letting it happen. In the end, though, most of Victor was just tired.

 

* * *

  

        Decorating the cake was fun. Eating the cake was more fun. What was not fun was the weight of the information that Ernest had revealed earlier. If Jascha were a stranger to him, he might have refused to believe any of it. But he wasn’t a stranger, and he knew Ernest well enough to know that he nearly never lied. Moreover, he knew Victor. Threats of physical harm weren’t outside his realm of normal.

        Ernest was showering after a run (he said he needed to leave the house once Victor returned). This meant that Jascha was alone with the cat, curled up waiting on the bed for him to come back. She was...long. Jascha may have been curled up, but the cat was lying on her side, stretched as far as her little body would go while he petted her belly.

        The shower shut off, and the silence was stifling without the background noise. Jascha gave him about five minutes to dry off and get dressed, watching the little digital clock as the minutes rolled by. Six minutes passed.

        “Ernest?” Jascha called gently.

        The door opened, and Ernest stepped out with a towel around his waist. He was staring at his phone. “Jascha, how do you feel about a trip to campus?” He asked, not looking up.

        “Not great,” Jascha said easily, wrinkling his nose. Mason was absolutely no longer in the hospital. Sure, it was winter break. But why take chances?

        “I got some whacky texts from a couple of the guys,” Ernest said, sitting beside Jascha on the bed. “Like, soccer guys. Not frat guys.”

        Jascha would have preferred to let himself be distracted by Ernest’s freshly-clean, mostly naked body, but he focused through it. “Whacky how?” He asked, sitting up a bit.

        “Like, as in Carson texted me asking if I’d talked to Liam,” Ernest said seriously.

        “Have you?” Jascha remembered Liam. He was a first year with what seemed to be a perpetually apologetic smile.

        “No,” Ernest frowned. “Not since, like, before Christmas.”

        “Is that unusual?” Jascha asked. Ernest shrugged.

        “I mean, the team is my whole life, but we don’t tend to talk much over breaks,” Ernest said thoughtfully. “But...Liam was a little rough back when we called. I, uh. Meant to ask Henry about it, but then…”

        “Yeah,” Jascha nodded. “What’s up with Liam?”

        “He wouldn’t tell me exactly,” Ernest sighed. “Just that he was upset, and that he was really afraid that I’d…” Ernest tripped over his thoughts. Jascha waited patiently for him to find his balance. “He said he knew what happened at the frat. From Nate.”

        Jascha’s jaw tightened. He’d told that kid never to tell anyone. “Was he upset because of what happened, or because of why it happened?”

        “I don’t know,” Ernest said sadly. His voice dropped to a whisper. “He was panicking. When we talked. What I know is that he was scared it would happen to him.”

        “Oh,” Jascha nodded without comprehension. A beat later, it clicked. “ Oh. ”

        “Yeah,” Ernest took a heavy breath. “Carson’s worried. Apparently he and Liam were supposed to work out today, since they’re both back on campus now. But Liam was a no show.”

        “Is Carson...safe? To talk to?” Jascha asked cautiously. Ernest smiled a little.

        “He, uh. Asked after you. By title.” Ernest said nervously. Jascha stared at him blankly. What title? He didn’t have a title. Ernest must have noticed. He clicked through his phone and handed it to Jascha. “Read his last couple texts.”

 

        _ You’ll talk to him?  Carson asked. _

_ Yeah. _

         _You still with you boyfriend?_

         _Yup_

         _The one you brought to finals?_

         _Yup_

        _Nice. He seemed cool. LMK when you reach Liam. I’m worried about the kid._

“He’s not an asshole,” Jascha said more to himself than anyone else.

        “Apparently not,” Ernest smiled. “I did kinda remember that he, like, has a gay cousin or sibling or something. I don’t think this was super new to him.”

        Jascha scooched closer and leaned his head on Ernest’s bare shoulder. His skin was warm and smelled vaguely of his body wash. “Are you going to go?”

        “Like, to find Liam?” Ernest asked, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Yes. Are you going to come with me?”

        “...Maybe,” Jascha said quietly. “We’d need to convince my mother to let me get in a car.” He’d avoided having that conversation with her thus far. He didn’t picture it going well.

        “Right,” Ernest said with a sigh. He patted Jascha’s shoulder and got up. “Wanna go ask her while I get dressed?”

        “Okay,” Jascha said grimly. It was worth a shot. There was just...very limited chance of success. Anxiety ran too strongly in the family.

        He found his parents in the music room. His mother was practicing, and his father appeared to have passed out on the sofa, with a book on violin repairs over his face. He took a seat on the bench beside his mom.

        “Hello sweetheart,” she said, barely looking up as she played.

        “Can I ask you something?” Jascha asked sheepishly. He suddenly felt very much like he had when he was thirteen, asking to be allowed to go to a ‘scary’ movie with Harvey.

        “Sure,” she smiled, pausing after the phrase. She turned to look at him, fixing her viridian eyes on his hazel ones. “What’s up?”

        “I…” Jascha hesitated. “Ernest is really worried about one of his friends from soccer, and he wants to go back to campus to check on him.”

        “Okay,” she nodded slowly. Jascha could see the gears turning in her head.

        “And he asked if I could go with him. Back to campus.” Jascha managed to say. He saw his mother’s jaw grow ever so slightly tight.

        “In a car?” She asked stiffly.

        “Yes,” Jascha nodded. He glanced to his father, who was awake now that the piano stopped. He said nothing, but watched the conversation carefully.

        “Jascha…” his mom said quietly. He could see the slight changes in her body language and hear the minute shift in her voice. “I’d really prefer for you to stay, but…”

        “Will you be okay if I go? I may be out for a few hours,” he added carefully.

        “I--” Now the changes weren’t so slight. She looked very nervous. “A few hours?”

        “The friend might need to talk to him for a while,” Jascha said. He was nervous because she was nervous. They always fed on each other’s anxiety, even before the crash.

        “Jascha, please don’t go,” she said quietly. Her eyes shone with the start of tears. Jascha shifted in discomfort, and was relieved when he father appeared and sat on his mother’s other side, wrapping his arms around her.

        “Mom...Ernest is a good driver,” Jascha said, voice crackling a little with sympathetic fear. “I’ve driven with him before.” His mother nodded, and she clutched at his father’s arm.

        “Is it possible for Ernest to make this trip by himself, and then you can go with him on a shorter one a different day?” His father said diplomatically. He seemed utterly unphased by his mom’s rising panic.

        “Probably?” Jascha said. He glanced to the stairs, meeting Ernest’s eyes as he came down. Ernest’s face contorted with concern, and he joined them in the room.

        “What’s up?” Ernest asked, placing a hand on Jascha’s shoulder.

        “Can you do this trip alone?” Jascha asked, almost desperately.

        “Yeah, definitely,” Ernest said, rubbing the back of his neck gently.

        “No, I don’t want to prevent him from going,” his mother said, wiping her eyes. She seemed to be addressing his father more than either of them. “He’s an adult, he should-”

        “Kassia,” Ernest said soothingly, cutting her off. “It’s okay. I know that it was a...car accident. And Jascha probably doesn’t want to be in the car for forty-five minutes either.”

        “...I don’t,” Jascha admitted, leaning into his touch slightly.

        “Okay,” his mother nodded, taking a breath. Jascha took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “So you’ll stay here, and Ernest can take you out on a different trip?” She asked.

        “Mhm,” Ernest smiled. “Jascha, like, only barely knows this guy anyways. I’ll call him if I need emotional back-up,” he said lightly.

        “That sounds good,” his father said with a nod. Jascha relaxed as his mother calmed down. She looked much better with this plan.

        “I’m going to walk Ernest to his car,” Jascha said gently. “Then we can practice?” He asked his mom. She smiled and nodded.

        “Of course,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. She caught Ernest’s hand as the two of them got up to leave. “Good luck, Ernest,” she said, voice recovered. “If your friend needs anything you aren’t sure how to do, call Jascha and he can put me on the phone.”

        Ernest beamed. “I will,” he said lightly, linking arms with Jascha as they left. Once they were alone, Ernest looked up at him. He was still smiling. “Your mom is so cool,” he said.

        “Thank you,” Jascha smiled. “She’s very nervous, but I love her a lot,” he kissed Ernest’s cheek. “She loves you a lot also.” As they reached the car, Ernest paused to kiss him on the lips.

“I’ll try to be back before dinner,” he said quietly. “I’ll call if it looks like it’ll take longer.”

“Okay,” Jascha nodded. “Tell him I say hi.”

Ernest smiled as he got into the car. “I will.”

With that, Ernest was gone. All that was left was to play sonatas with his mother and hope to maybe catch Henry and ask if Victor was going to apologize or not.


	55. Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry considers violence. Victor remembers. Jascha leaves Ernest with Victor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Thanks for sticking with us! 
> 
> Trigger warnings: Memories of severe emotional abuse and sexual abuse (in a nightmare), conversations about violence.

         Henry Clerval did not consider himself a vengeful person. For everything he’d been through, he was more of a flight or fawn type of guy. Now, as far as he was concerned, he needed to fly to Germany and finish the job Victor had started. It would feel so nice, the slide of blood and viscera against his palms as he tore the rotting meat from Brandt’s corpse.

        But Victor was here with him and he was hurting. Henry folded over his lover’s shaking frame and made himself a human shield. “It wasn’t your fault,” he whispered into Victor’s hair. “He was an abusive old hag. Wanting sex is not the same thing as wanting... that .”

        “I had asked--” Victor tried to say.

        “You had asked to be treated well and with love. He failed, not you. Never you.” Henry never wanted to let Victor go ever again. Was this how Victor felt when Henry was in danger? He tried to school himself into calmness. It was six years ago. Brandt’s probably in prison now or rotting in some German coke den. Victor wasn’t in danger anymore. He was safe.

        “I did it again,” he wept.

        “Did what?” Henry asked. There were only so many things that could have meant.

        “I...snapped at Ernest and...and Kassia when you were hurt. I didn’t mean it. I really didn’t mean it. I was so scared--” It was hard for Henry to make out the words, but he got a pretty good  idea.

        “Just apologize to them. That’s all it takes. Ernest knows what’s up. They’ll forgive you. They both will.” Henry wanted desperately to kiss the fear away from Victor’s shoulders, but that probably wasn’t a good idea right now.

        “I’ll go--” Victor tried to clamber up, but stumbled and ended up back in Henry’s lap.

        “They’ll be okay. Please rest,” Henry whispered, stroking the back of his neck,

        “Are you sure?”

        “Absolutely positive.” Henry was sure Victor was asleep before he even finished the phrase.

        The sound of violin sonatas swirled from downstairs like the smell of cinnamon. Henry liked music, but he didn’t really know enough to tell what was being played. Perhaps Brahms? It sounded heavy and Romantic without being overbearing. After some time, the tone of the music turned soft and bubbly, the aural version of champagne. Light notes hopped and skipped up the highest string and popped as Jascha hit a series of harmonics. The piano part was sweet and simple and he could hear Kassia laughing.

        As much as he wanted to go downstairs and listen to Jascha’s music in all his glory, he still didn’t want to leave Victor. He gently ran his fingers through his air, all the anger and stress from the past hour gone. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.” Henry whispered, even though he knew Victor couldn’t hear. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just a kid. We were both just kids.” Violence flashed back into his subconscious. Maybe that would be something else to talk to Konig about. It wasn’t like he would actually kill Brandt if he saw him. Probably. “I’ll claw out his eyes,” Henry whispered. “He’ll never be able to look at you ever again.”

        There was a knock at the door. Henry gently replaced his legs with a pillow and went to greet whoever needed them.

        “Oh, hey Jascha,” Henry said cheerily, hoping he didn’t hear the threats of violence that just occurred. “You sound really good.” He wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to say or why Jascha was here. As far as he could remember, Jascha had never willingly come up to Victor’s room.

        “Can I talk to you?” he asked. Henry closed the door and stepped into the hallway.

        “Yeah, what’s up?”

        “I, uh, don’t really know how lucid you were, but when everything was...uh, happening. Victor kinda...lashed out at Ernest. Again.” Jascha clasped his hands together and couldn’t really make eye contact.

Henry sighed. “He had started to tell me.” Jascha raised an eyebrow. “Listen, we just had a really difficult conversation about some terrible things that happened and I told him he should rest. He would have gone straight downstairs to apologize. I think he feels really terrible.”

        “Terrible things?” Jascha asked. Henry was a little surprised. Jascha usually wasn’t one to pry.  

        “I can’t really tell you anything specific because it’s not my thing to tell,” Henry explained. “But it’s actually really, really bad and I had no idea. Even though I should have known.” He tried to shake the thought from his head. There’s nothing that could have given it away. It wasn’t his fault for not noticing.

        “I’m sorry. I know that’s rough.” Jascha shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

        “He really will apologize when he gets up, though. I just don’t know when that will be.” Henry felt the awkwardness seep into his own being.

        “No no, it’s fine. I just wanted to make sure. Ernest’s not even here right now. He went to go comfort one of his soccer friends I think. Something about being gay, probably. I don’t know.”

        “Oh, well, I’m sure he’ll give great advice. There’s barely a person alive I would trust more in that regard.”

        Jascha beamed. “Ernest is pretty wonderful.”

        “I’m so glad you found him,” Henry said. “You two fit together so perfectly. You both are really lucky.”

        “I’m glad I found him, too. I don’t really know what I would have done if I were just...alone, you know.” Jascha started shifting uncomfortably again. Henry wanted to get away from this particular topic as fast as possible.

        “I wouldn’t have let you be alone.” There was an awkward pause which made everything feel even worse. “Can I ask you a terrible question?”

        “Shoot,” Jascha leaned against the wall. He didn’t seem afraid of anything. Henry supposed awful questions were kinda par for the course in this house.

        “Did breaking Mason’s face help you feel better?” Henry closed his eyes as he asked it and the imagined picture of Brandt appeared in his mind. Hazel eyes that looked nothing like Jascha’s.

        He actually seemed to relax. Maybe it was a different kind of horrible question then he’d expected. “It didn’t make me feel good, but it was worth it, for Ernest.” Jascha explained. “I know that he’s never going to hurt anyone else ever again.”

        “So it was worth it?” Henry asked.

        “It was. Did burning down the frat help you feel better?” Jascha asked.

        “Yeah, it did.” Henry was shocked by the surety in his voice. “Does that make me a bad person?”

        “I don’t think so,” Jascha said. “It makes sense to want to hurt the people who have hurt the ones you love. I don’t know, I guess it feels like justice.”

        “I don’t want anyone to hurt them again.”

        “I’m going to be honest, I thought Victor was the only person who hurt Victor.” Jascha crossed his arms and looked unsure of himself, as if Henry would get mad at him for saying so.

        “Usually...yeah. That’s basically true. But he’s been hurt by someone else and I don’t know. I’m just so angry and I keep thinking about...bad things.” It was so very difficult to explain to Jascha why he felt like this without telling him what happened.

        “You know, it’s okay to be angry. Normal, happy people are angry all the time. I don’t know what happened, but you’ll probably never see him again. At this point, planning out every detail of your revenge mission isn’t going to help.” Jascha put a hand on his shoulder.

        “So I should talk it through with Konig? I don’t know, get everything in order so I don’t have to think about it more than necessary. He’d probably have better advice,” Henry paused for a moment. “Not that you’re advice isn’t good, I can just give him context and not you.”

        Jascha seemed momentarily lost in a cloud. “Konig?” he asked.

        “Uh yeah, he’s Victor’s...well, I guess now my therapist.” Henry shrugged.

        “That’s a weird coincidence.” Jascha almost laughed.

        “What?”

        “I had a therapist when I was a teenager also named Konig. What are the odds?” Now Jascha laughed in earnest.

        “So, what I’m gathering from this conversation is that fate is real and our lives were doomed to be scarily intertwined from the very beginning,” Henry couldn’t help but laugh too.

        “Yeah, apparently.” Jascha smiled at Henry. “What are you planning on doing now?”

        “I don’t know. Read a book? Maybe do some laundry?” Henry scrunched his nose. He hated folding laundry more than anything.  

        “Want to play violin instead?” Jascha asked.

        “I have never touched that instrument in my entire life,” Henry laughed. “I will 100% sound like a dying sheep.”

        “We have an extra and it’s never too late to start,” Jascha shrugged.

        “I’m in,” Henry smiled.

 

* * *

  

        The riverside was crowded, filled with laughing tourists and running school children. The sun shone with the feeble light of early spring, casting weird half shadows and displacing the cold in the air to a shallow chill. Victor tugged at the sleeve of his sweater and eyed the crowd nervously. It was a bit pathetic, getting so worked up over a simple outing but things lately had been so weird, tilted and off. It had been that way for weeks with hazes in his vision whenever he stood and a building tension behind his eyes and a constant aching pulse around the tendons in his chest. He was cold all the time now, even when he sat in front of the lab’s overworked heater.

        He also wasn’t stupid, of course. He knew what most of the weirdness meant, the chills, the losses in muscle mass, the general weakness. Victor knew that he edging dangerously close to starving but he also knew that in order to appeal to Henri, he had to be thin. And pretty. Mostly thin though since Henri didn’t seem to care as much about the dark circles under his eyes or the ugly crops of acne that still crept up along his cheeks. As long as his boyfriend could see his collarbone clearly through the skin, Victor was hot enough to be worth banging.

        No, what was actually worrying him was his chest. He was fairly certain his chest shouldn’t be hurting quite as much as it did, twinges increasing to twists when he concentrated on it too long.

        Victor sighed and relaxed back on the bench. Too many people, too much noise, and he didn’t know how he was supposed to occupy himself while he waited for Henri to finish up with his class. He didn’t really...do much these days except work and sleep and talk with Henri.

        Victor examined the scene around him more closely. Bookstore, lines of benches, a payphone, and the river water lapping gently along a wall of large stones.

        Payphone.

        How long had it been since he’d called home again?

        The thought put an acidic taste in his mouth. None of them understood. Not then, not now. He knew that if his father could see him now, he’d be dragged into Konig’s office faster than he could blink with claims of mental instability and self destruction. And Elizabeth, of course, she’d chew him to pieces for dating Henri. He snorted bitterly. Maybe then they’d pay him some actual attention instead of pushing him to the side for Ernest. Fucking Ernest. Even the name made Victor’s blood boil. His stupid, perfect, sporty, empathetic shit of a brother. The golden child to his black sheep. None of them deserved him and his genius. None of them would ever love him, not the way Henri did.

        Victor bit his lip. Except maybe Henry. The other one. Even if he was needy and whiny and always riding his coattails, Henry had always cared about him before. In a real way. The ache in his chest grew more pronounced. He glanced around. Maybe he could call. Very quickly, just for five minutes. Just long enough to...say hello? Say something.

        He had time.

        Victor stood and walked stealthily over to the phone. The path there seemed to stretch too far to be reasonable and Victor’s feet slid oddly against the stone sidewalk, like he was walking over something soft and squishy. Every step he took seemed to make him sink deeper into the earth. Irritation rising, he reached for the phone and froze.

        “Henry?” He heard himself ask distantly as he stared at the man standing in the phone booth.

        Henry Clerval turned around, hung the phone in his hand back on the hook, and smiled. “ _Victor!_ ” He said in delight. “ _I found you!_ ”

        Victor tried to take a step back only to find his feet lodged too firmly in the stone. “ _Why are you here?_ ” He asked as the skin along the base of his neck crawled. “ _You’re in Illinois. Chicago._ ”

        “ _Well, obviously, I’m in Ingolstadt now_.” Henry answered, stepping out of the booth. His face was split in a funny grin and his amber eyes seemed to bore straight through Victor’s skull.

        Victor wrapped his arms around his middle. “ _No,_ ” he said, panic rising from his core and spreading through his system like a wildfire, “ _you can’t be here, you can’t see me like this._ ”

        “ _But I did see you like this._ ” Henry cocked his head. “ _I saw you worse than this. I’ve seen you screaming and cursing and spitting blood. You think this is the worst it gets?_ ” His gaze grew sympathetic. A tad mocking. “ _You really were a dumb kid._ ”

        Victor swallowed against the insult, suddenly hyper aware of his body. Did Henry think he was pretty like this? Was he attracted to him? Would he ever be again? “ _You can’t stay here._ ” Victor said. “ _I miss you but you can’t stay. Henri will catch you._ ”

        As if on cue, a pair of calloused hands caught Victor’s hips. Strong arms laced around his chest and Victor stiffened as breath tickled his neck. Henry’s eyes never left his, amber burning cold.

        “ _Victor_ ,”  a warm, colorful voice spoke into his ear,  “ _who’s this?_ ”

        “ _I’m Victor’s Other Henry._ ”  Henry spoke up before Victor could beg him to stop.  “ _You’re Brandt?_ ”

        “ _You can’t speak German_.”  Victor found his voice fumblingly.  “ _Stop_.”

        “ _Yup_.”  Henri confirmed. His body was unnaturally warm against Victor’s back.  “ _I’m Brandt_.”  A hand found its way into Victor’s hair, winding tightly into the roots.

        Victor shot Henry a desperate look, begging him to run, but he remained impassive.  “ _You made him ugly_.”  Henry said, disgust sudden brilliant on his face, and Victor’s stomach dropped out.  “ _He’s all skin and bones and he’s not even good for sex now. How am I supposed to have a relationship with him if he can’t even take it from behind?_ ”  Henry glared at Victor viciously.  “ _I wanted to date a man, not an obedient little bitch._ ”

        Victor wanted to recoil at the words but hands held him tight, too tight, crushingly. The pain in his chest was screaming and he felt cold as death. Right by his ear and everywhere at once, Henri laughed.  “Don’t worry!”  He said cheerfully.  “He’s better now! I fixed him. He’ll listen to you and won’t make any trouble. He’ll do anything to make you love him, even if it kills him. I’ve even trained him not to scream, see?”

        A deeper chill settled into Victor’s bones and, with violent intensity, he realized he wasn’t wearing any clothing. Henri’s hands gripped his hips and pulled them back as a pair of bare feet kicked his legs apart and, all the while, Henry watched, eyes hungry and appraising and frigid.

        As Victor braced himself, Henry smiled.

        He woke up gasping like a he’d run a marathon. He was burning, everything was too bright and too dark and too cold and too hot and wrong, wrong, wrong, tilted, twisting, terrifying, his back was exposed.

        Back. Victor kicked his feet out, propelling himself back against the headboard.

        Cold. He heaved the blankets over his head and curled into the tightest ball he could manage.

        Alone. He wasn’t, though, he couldn’t be, Henri was somewhere, lurking in a corner, waiting for Victor to stop hyperventilating so he could come back to bed and smooth his hair and call him beautiful and perfect and--

        The bed was too soft. It stopped Victor short, freezing the ragged breath in his lungs. It was soft and warm and thick. Nothing at all like Henri’s thin, springy bed in Ingolstadt. He was home. Actual home, Chicago. He hesitantly touched his chest, spreading his fingers to his collarbone. Protruding but naturally. Not skeletal. He was home.

        “Henry?” Victor asked and immediately wished to snatch the words back from the air. He couldn’t call Henry. Henry hated him, Henry  knew,  Henry had watched as it happened and smiled.

        “It was a dream.” Victor muttered into his knees. “None of that happened. Henry was never in Ingolstadt.” He’d never tried to call Henry that spring. No, Victor had sat on the bench and waited for Henri and they’d gone for a walk along the Danube River. They’d talked about data sampling and Henri’s plans for after grad school for a while. Then they’d gone home as it started to get dark. Had sex. Gone to bed with Henri spooning Victor.

        But none of that changed the fact that Henry knew now. Henry knew everything and even if he said that he didn’t blame Victor, he surely did. He’d change his mind and then he’d leave him alone forever and ever and ever. Henry should have broken up with Victor right after he told him about this. Victor didn’t deserve the false hope. Henry didn’t want a bitch like Victor, he needed to be with someone proper, someone who could protect him against monster’s like his father and hold him close and didn’t do shit like lose their entire minds over a simple bad dream.

        “Henry?” Victor asked again, pitifully. The bed was empty. Maybe he’d already left? Victor took a hard breath. No. No, Henry said he didn’t blame him. That Henri was an abusive old hag. He might have even been telling the truth.

        Victor had to check.

        With shaking legs, Victor forced himself to stand. He made his way to the door, dragging his hand along the wall to keep balance. Somewhere below him, a violin was wailing like a dying sheep. The noise pinched the space between Victor’s ears and he covered them. Jascha didn’t play like that.

        Victor quickened his pace.

        As he rounded the corner to the music room, he stopped and watched. Henry stood to one one side of the piano, holding the violin his father had gotten Jascha aloft. He bit his tongue and, after a brief pause, dragged the bow over the violin’s strings painfully.

        “Okay,” Jascha grabbed the bow just above Henry’s hand and guided it away from the instrument, “let’s, uh...let’s try to do this a bit more gently.”

        “Sorry,” Henry laughed, “I tried to warn you.”

        “You’re doing good.” Jascha said encouragingly. “You just need practice. A lot of practice.” He laid the bow back against the strings and adjusted Henry’s hand. Victor could feel the moment his hazel eyes skittered to the doorway. “Victor?” Jascha said in surprise or fear.

        Hazel. A slightly different shade but hazel, just like Henri’s. Victor took a step back and, as Henry turned around, looked to him instead.

        A face pinched in concern, eyes quickly glancing over Victor. Worry, worry. When Henry spoke, it was in English because, of course, the real Henry didn’t speak German. “Victor, are you okay?” He set the violin aside hurriedly and walked over to Victor, stopping just short of touching him. “I’m sorry I left, Jascha offered to try and teach me some violin and I thought you were going to be asleep longer.”

        Victor glanced to Jascha, back to Henry, then to the floor. Maybe this was a bad idea. His brain was melting down but not even in a way he could understand, loud and explosive and violent, just slowly leaking through the roof of his mouth and draining down to his feet. With a clenched jaw, Victor met Henry’s worried gaze and ordered himself to think only of reality. Not dreams. Never nightmares. “Touch me.” He commanded Henry before realizing how unfortunate that sounded out loud. He was fairly certain he was crying.

        Henry, however, seemed to understand and pulled Victor into a tight hug. The restriction made him want to bolt even more but Victor held still until as the stabbing sensation spiked and swelled and finally faded. He relaxed into Henry’s arms.

        “Do you still think I look like a slime monster?” Victor challenged him with a strained voice.

        “I…” There was a note of confusion in the other man’s voice. Victor relished it. Confusion was good. Anything besides disgust was music to his ears. “I think you’re a very handsome slime monster.”

        It was the right answer. Victor pressed his face into Henry’s shoulder and allowed a few moments for breath before he pushed away. “Okay.” He said, wiping thick tears from his cheek forcefully. “Okay. I’m good.”

        “You’re very good.” Henry agreed. He held Victor’s hand loosely. “Do you want to--”

        “Where’s Ms. Simonis?”

        A beat. “Why do you want to know?” Jascha asked carefully.

        “I need to apologize still.” Victor said without looking in Jascha’s direction. “Can I talk to her?”

        “Victor, you don’t need to do this now.” Henry said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You know they’ll forgive you. Let’s go-”

        “Nope.” Victor interrupted him. “I need to apologize to her. And Ernest. Especially Ernest.” He waved towards where he assumed Jascha was still standing. “You should come too, that way you can kill me if I mess up again.”

        “You’re not going to hurt Ernest again.” Henry said. His brow was furrowed with stress and Victor instantly felt drowned in guilt for putting it there.

        “Promises, promises.” Victor mumbled. “Can I talk to Ernest now?”

        “Maybe you should wait.” Jascha suggested, voice just a tad off kilter. Nervous. More so than usual.

        A door opened and Victor startled. He pushed his back against the wall only to relax as Ernest walked into the room. Ernest, however, had quite the opposite reaction, going rigid the second he saw Victor. The two stared at each other, Ernest’s face gradually going more pale as he took in Victor’s mused hair and wild eyes, the residue of tears on his cheeks. The scene broke when Victor stepped forward.

        Ernest was at Jascha’s side in a flash, half hiding behind him, and Victor came to a halt. Guilt mixed very potently with grief, he was quickly discovering. A terrible, sickening cocktail and all he wanted to do was go throw it up.

        “I’m sorry.” Victor’s voice sounded like some kind of demented gargle and he struggled to clear it. “I’m sorry for the other day. I- I said- I promised myself I wouldn’t do that to you again and I fucked it up.”

        Ernest’s eyes were distrustful and layered with formidable misery. Victor nearly crumbled under their weight, already present panic rising to a point. Victor would never be able to undo what had been done and he kept making things worse. Maybe it would have been better if he’d stayed as obedient as Henri wanted. If he’d just let himself die in Ingolstadt, none of this would ever have happened. He could have just stayed a bad childhood monster instead of this waking nightmare he’d become. But he wasn’t supposed to think like that, was he? “I’m sorry.” He choked out. “I’m really fucking sorry.”

        Ernest carefully moved out from behind Jascha. There was clever concern now, emerging between the terror and doubt. “You’re not lying again?” Ernest asked.

        Victor didn’t know. He didn’t think so. He hadn’t thought so last time. “No, I’m not lying.”

        “Then I forgive you.” Ernest said. There was relief in his stuttered voice but also a certain level of hardness. “But don’t do it again.”

        Victor nodded. He was fully sobbing now and it sucked because it made it so much harder to talk. “And- and I’m sorry for the b- box cutter.” He managed to force out and Ernest was back on guard in an instant.

        “Why are you apologizing for that?” He asked warily.

        “Victor, uh, told me what happened in Ingolstadt.” Henry offered when Victor’s voice finally failed. “I think it’s...dredged some things up.” He placed a very hesitant hand on the small of Victor’s back and rubbed calming circles.

        “I’m sorry.” Victor tried again as Ernest took a step back into Jascha’s waiting arms. “I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. I- I hurt you so much and I couldn’t even protect you and I was wrong!”

        “C’mon, Victor.” Henry said gently. “Let’s go back upstairs for a bit.”

        “Wait!” Victor said desperately. “I didn’t say sorry to Ms. Simonis, I need to-”

        “I’ll tell her.” Jascha offered stiffly. Hazel. Victor squeezed his eyes closed.

        “No, no, I have to tell her.” Otherwise it would be like all those times when his dad apologized  for  Victor, back when he was still trying to convince Ernest that Victor loved him when he clearly didn’t.

        “It’s okay.” A woman’s calm voice materialized in the room. “Victor, I forgive you. Go upstairs with Henry now.”

        He didn’t so much make it to his room as he was half-guided, half-carried there by Henry, only returning to awareness long enough to make the other drop him before reaching the bed proper. He sat by the foot instead and curled himself into a tight ball.

        And the silence of the Illinois suburb was blissful.

 

* * *

  

        Once Henry and Victor went up, it was just Jascha, his mom, and Ernest. It was very still for a moment between them; watching Victor go through whatever that was left the room feeling stiff and heavy. Jascha’s attention was drawn to Ernest, who despite being held against his chest, had every muscle in his legs and back prepared to sprint. Finally, his mother sighed and approached the two of them.

        “Ernest?” She asked with the utmost gentleness. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?” Jascha felt him unfreeze.

        “I-” Ernest hesitated. “Maybe?”

        “What can help you feel better?” She said. Jascha had never been in a position to watch her talk to someone else this way, since during his entire childhood he was the one with the panic attacks and mental shut-downs. It was kind of amazing to see her become a beacon of calm.

        “I don’t know,” Ernest said quietly. “I only just got back from campus. I was gonna, like, talk to Jascha about how it went,” a beat, and Jascha felt him tense again. “I...What if this is a symptom?” Ernest said shakily. Jascha pressed his face into his clean, fluffy curls.

        “Of what, honey?” His mother asked sweetly.

        “Victor,” Ernest said miserably. Jascha guided him to the couch so they could sit. His mother pulled the bench over from the piano.

        “Has he apologized before during a panic attack?” She asked calmly.

        “No,” Ernest said quietly, leaning again Jascha’s chest.

        “Maybe he meant it,” Jascha said, disbelieving his own voice. “He was crying, and he didn’t try to hurt you or insult you.”

        Ernest stayed very quiet. “Did I do the wrong thing? Should I have let him touch me?”

        “You were scared,” his mother said gently. “It’s okay to prioritize your own health when you’re scared.” Ernest nodded slowly.

        “Jascha?” He asked after a few seconds.

        “Hm?” Jascha leaned his head lightly against Ernest’s.

        “I want to go talk to Victor,” Ernest said softly. “But I need you to come.”

        “Is that...a good idea?” Jascha wasn’t even asking skeptically. He literally had no idea what was best for each of them in this case. He glanced to his mother, who gazed back at him with reassuring emerald eyes.

        “I need to,” Ernest said with sudden resolve. “He’s, like, kinda nuts. But I know why the box cutter thing came up and what he meant and I need to go tell him he’s okay.” He got up before Jascha could weigh in. “Please come?” Ernest asked pleadingly.

        “I will,” Jascha said, standing to his feet. His vision was a little spotty from the sitting and the stress but he recovered. “Mom, can you let Dad know what’s going on? And that he should maybe keep doing...whatever it is he’s doing with William? So Will doesn’t find out what’s up.”

        His mother smiled warmly. “I believe right now William is reading him some greek myths,” she said fondly. “I’ll let him know that he should pretend to be more engaged.”

        Jascha nodded and followed Ernest up the stairs. Once they reached Victor’s door, they paused. Jascha reached out and held his hand. “Okay?”

        “Yeah,” Ernest said weakly. He glanced to Jascha, warm brown eyes filled with fear and determination. “Just...hang out in the doorway.”

        “I will,” Jascha said quietly.

        “And be ready to, like. Run,” Ernest whispered. “If this goes bad.”

        “Mhm,” Jascha nodded nervously. He bent down and kissed Ernest quickly on the cheek before he knocked on the door. They waited for a moment, but Henry opened it.

        “Ernest?” He asked.With the door open they could hear Victor’s muffled crying.

        “I, like, really need to talk to Victor,” Ernest said firmly.

        “He’s pretty upset…” Henry said quietly.

        “I know,” Ernest said firmly. “But I need to talk to him.”

        Henry looked him over with tired skepticism. He opened the door after a few seconds, and Ernest walked in. Jascha stepped far enough into the room that he could get to Ernest within seconds should he need help, but he stayed close enough to the door so as not to crowd them. Henry stayed back a few feet as well.

        “Victor?” Ernest said quietly, sitting on the side of the bed. “Can I touch you?” There was no response from the other man, so Ernest rested a hand on his shoulder. Jascha, despite himself, felt the urge to grab Ernest and get out of there, just in case Victor had managed to find something sharp. A pen or something. Anything could be a weapon in his hands.

        Victor, however, just curled tighter and cried harder, incoherently apologizing. Ernest seemed calm now, and he massaged Victor’s shoulder gently. “Victor, I...accept your apology. For the box cutter thing,” he said hesitantly. Henry actually had to grab Jascha’s arm as he started to jump forward as Victor shifted.

        “Why?” Victor asked, sitting up. He was still more or less curled in a ball.

        “I need to go to him,” Jascha whispered to Henry. Victor was crying less, and his voice was stony. Henry, however, held him fast.

        “It’s okay,” Henry said softly. He relaxed his grip on his wrist and stood beside him, keeping one hand lightly against his back. It was calming, a little. Jascha did some math and figured that, worst case scenario, he could still probably get across the room faster than Victor or Henry could stop him. He forced himself to be still, and to listen to Ernest.

        “I...knew something really bad happened,” Ernest said gently. “Even, like, back then,” he laughed hollowly. “You were so thin. And you wouldn’t let Henry touch you, which was, like, not normal. Even by your crazy standards.”

        Victor nodded into his knees, but said nothing. Ernest continued. “And, like, not gonna lie, the box cutter thing super fucked me up for a while. But…” he paused. “I don’t know. It felt different. You- you weren’t angry. When you did it. Not at me,” he said sadly. “I just remember being scared. Obviously, like, because you had a literal blade at my throat. But also ‘cuz you were crying. And you looked so fucking terrified that I knew I had something to be afraid of. Like, besides you. Since something apparently scared you, which I thought was impossible.”

        “...I’m usually scared,” Victor muttered.

        “I mean, yeah, but you usually get angry when you’re scared,” Ernest said. “It was the first time you didn’t seem angry at me,” he said, almost gently. Victor looked at him. “You just seemed scared. And that’s what fucked me up.”

        “I didn’t want it to happen to you,” Victor said quietly, tears starting again. “It was so-” he cut himself off. “It wasn’t supposed to happen to you,” he sobbed.

        “It’s not your fault it did,” Ernest said gently. “It’s also not your fault that you got hurt.” Ernest gently uncurled Victor’s arms from around his knees and did what, to Jascha, seemed insane and dangerous. He lay on the bed beside his brother with his head resting against his chest, pulling Victor’s hand so it was on his shoulder. Victor curled around him instead, hugging his brother tightly, crying against his hair.

        “I’m sorry,” Victor sobbed. “I still fucked up so many times, and-”

        “It’s okay,” Ernest said firmly, taking one of Victor’s hands and guiding it to his wrist. Victor seemed to understand, even if Jascha didn’t. He found Ernest’s pulse point, which seemed to calm him down considerably. “I’m still alive,” Ernest said softly. “And I’m okay now.”

        Victor nodded, unspeaking between ragged breaths. Ernest let there be quiet for a few moments before speaking again. “We can figure this out together,” he said quietly. “For, like, literally the first time in our lives we can work together to make things better.”

        Victor curled more tightly around Ernest. He abandoned his grip on his wrist in favor of hugging him, which Ernest seemed glad to accept. Ernest sat up a bit and let Victor be wrapped in his arms, stroking Victor’s bony shoulders lightly. He leaned his cheek against the top of his head. “It’s gonna be okay,” Ernest said gently.

        “It’s not okay,” Victor wept. “It’s not okay because I hurt you.”

        “It’s okay because I love you,” Ernest sighed. “I finally have an older brother for the first time in my life,” he said quietly. “I’m not gonna let go of you that easily.”

        Victor mumbled something into Ernest’s chest that was too quiet for Jascha to hear. He waited tensely for a sign from Ernest that something was wrong, but what he saw instead was a smile ghost over his lips.

        “Yeah, I’ll stay here with you,” Ernest said quietly to his brother. He settled against the bed more comfortably, which indicated to Jascha that he was going to be there for a while. Henry wandered a little closer.

        “Do you need us to stay?” He asked quietly. Victor shook his head.

        “I don’t think so,” Ernest said softly. He smiled sadly. “We have, like, twenty-two years of bonding to catch up on.”

        Jascha couldn’t see Henry’s face, but his voice was smiling as he spoke. “We’ll come get you if you aren’t down by dinner, okay?”

        “Okay,” Ernest smiled. Jascha wanted to protest, but Henry returned to him and more or less dragged him out of the room by his hand, closing the door behind him.

        “We can’t actually leave them,” Jascha said nervously. Now that Ernest was out of sight he was running through all the bad things that might happen. He looked desperately at Henry. “It’s not safe. We can’t leave them.”

        “Do you trust Ernest?” Henry said gently.

        “Yes,” Jascha said without hesitation.

        “And I trust Victor,” Henry said with a nod. “They both want to be alone together for a little bit, and that’s okay.” Jascha hesitated. He shook his head.

        “No, it’s not safe,” he repeated. Box cutters and old death threats filled his head. “Nope. I need to go back--” Henry stopped his hand from reaching for the door.

        “It’s okay,” Henry said with kind firmness. He guided Jascha towards the stairs, seemingly uncaring that Jascha was looking back towards the door.

        “What if something happens?” Jascha finally had to look forwards once they hit the steps. “What if something goes wrong and they need to be separated?”

        “Ernest can literally outrun most people in Chicago, and outweighs Victor by close to fifty pounds,” Henry said easily. “I think Ernest is more than capable of getting out.”

        “But…” Jascha couldn’t figure out what words to say next. “What if…”

        “It’ll be good for them, Jascha,” Henry found his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “How about you and your mom play some sonatas for me?”

        Violin. Well-played, Henry, Jascha thought. He nodded. “Okay. I can do that,” he said. If he couldn’t hold Ernest, he could hold Kroshka. He shut off his thinking brain and let his mother, Henry, and the violin fill his head instead.


	56. Plans and Practices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry learns violin. Victor talks to Ernest. Jascha has dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading this far! As always, we love comments and kudos!
> 
> Trigger warnings: References to past physical and sexual violence.

            “Jascha, I think you should keep trying to teach Henry violin,” Kassia said as she sat on the piano bench. “Five full sonatas in a row is kinda a lot, even for you.” Henry wasn’t about to complain. He liked listening to Jascha play, but he had played violin for ten minutes and the tips of his fingers hurt, nevermind more than an hour.

            Without the music, Henry could here the sounds of Alphonse and Lukas making dinner in the kitchen. “Dinner will be done in, like, an hour. Then you can see Ernest and everything’ll be okay,”

            “I really don’t know how to teach,” Jascha mutter.

            “You were doing great earlier. You just need to take things in baby steps,” Kassia said as she gave the other violin to Henry. It felt too light to be real and he was afraid he would drop it.

            “Okay, okay,” Jascha muttered to himself. “Do you remember how to hold the instrument.”

            Henry remembered how to put the violin on his shoulder because there were only so many ways to do it that didn’t hurt, but the bow was still a complete mystery to him. He held it out in his fist. “Absolutely not,” he said.

            “Oh sweetheart,” Kassia laughed. “Jascha, do you remember how you were taught?”

            “Uhh, yeah. But I can’t say that to an adult,” Jascha blushed and kinda looked like he wanted to drop dead.

            “You can and you will,” Kassia said as she ruffled Jascha’s hair.

            “I promise whatever you’re about to say to me is totally not that bad,” Henry tried to sound reassuring. Jascha might be one of the best violinist he’s ever seen, but skill with the instrument didn’t really mean skill as a teacher. “I have definitely heard worse.”

            Jascha ran his hand over his face. “Just for an hour?” he asked.

            “Just for an hour,” Henry confirmed. “Then we can go get them.”

            “Okay, okay. You’re going to make a bunny.” Jascha said.

            “A bunny,” Henry repeated. He put the tip of his thumb against the first knuckle of his middle and ring finger.

            “Make the bunny bite the stick,” Jascha ordered with the utmost seriousness. Kassia tried her best not to laugh. Henry did as well, but apparently not well enough, because Jascha started laughing too. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he giggled. He gently pulled the bow through Henry’s grip until it was resting on the thing he thought was called the frog. He didn’t know why. It didn’t look like a frog. Frogs were covered in blood.

            “Okay, I think I’ve got the hang of it,” Henry smiled.

            “Okay, I want you to play an A major scale.” Jascha said. Henry looked at him blankly.

            “Honey,” Kassia cut in. “What’s an A major scale?”

            “Well, you’re going to play an open A,” he explained. Henry definitely knew what that was, so he played it. “That was a D,” Jascha smiled. “Try one string over,” Henry did. “Perfect.”

            Henry was pretty sure it was far from perfect and he still sounded like hell, but progress was progress and all that jazz. “I did it!” he said excitedly.

            “Great! Now, you’re going to put your index finger down.” Jascha explained. Henry did, and Jascha cringed. He shifted his hand up about an inch. “There; if you keep your hand there, you should be good.”

            Henry put his first finger down and then his second and third. Jscha was right, he sounded more or less in tune. He played up and down the scale a few times and he was unbelievably proud of himself.

            “Who is butchering my instrument?” Lukas asked good naturedly from the doorway.

            “Oh,” Henry’s heart fell. “I can stop. I was just trying to learn--”

            “Nonsense,” Lukas said, face unchanged but voice rising. “If you want to learn the violin then you will butcher it with style.” He pressed his hand between Henry’s shoulder blade and pressed down on the muscle of his neck. “Better?” he asked.

            “Much,” Henry was surprised. He didn't even know he was capable of holding tension there.

            “Now try again,” Lukas instructed. “And don’t press so hard.” There was a pause as Luka’s inspected his posture. “Your bowhold is very good.”

            “Thank you. Jascha taught me.” Henry said, beaming.

            “Jascha did a very good job.” Lukas said, pride oozing from his voice.

            “I had to resort to the bunny,” Jascha huffed. “I thought I wouldn’t have to think about that after I turned, like..four.”

            “The bunny works,” Lukas shrugged. “I still use it with beginning students at the university.”

            “You use that with college students who pay you?” Jascha sounded skeptical.

            “Everyone likes bunnies, Jascha,” Lukas deadpanned. “Now, Henry, would you like to learn how to play ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?’”

            “Honey, we’re supposed to let Jascha do the teaching,” Kassia reminded him.

            “Henry, would you like to learn how to play ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?’” Jascha asked.

            “I would be honored,” Henry said with an exaggerated bow.

            If he were being 100% honest, Henry wasn’t actually paying that much attention; not that anyone could really tell the difference. Actually, Lukas could definitely tell, but he didn’t say anything. It was difficult to think about the surprisingly difficult technique of string crossing when Victor was so upset.

            Henry could think clearly. It was good that Ernest and Victor were reconciling. Really reconciling. He was still worried. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked after Ingolstadt. He knew it was a tender subject and he asked anyway and it seemed like Victor hasn’t stopped crying in an entire day. And maybe he shouldn’t have left him to hang out with Jascha.

            And then there was the issue that he thought Henry should break up with him. That… was an issue, and not one he really knew how to deal with. Henry was sorta in the same boat as Jascha. He wanted nothing more than to run upstairs and hold Victor until he felt better, but that wouldn’t be very helpful. Henry knew this was good. Unlike Jascha, he also knew nothing bad would happen. Victor had promised.

            “You could try adding vibrato, if you want,” Jascha said, pulling Henry from his distracted musings.

            “Excuse me?” Henry asked.

            “Vibrato, you know. Shake,” Jascha tried to explain.

            “Shake?” Henry was a little confused.

            “Jascha, honey,” Kassia tried to cut in.

            Lukas put a hand on her shoulder. “Let us see what Jascha does with this situation.”

            Henry gave him a sideways glance. He tried to play through ‘Twinkle’ and he shook his violin arm. It sounded bad, like, worse than it had before, which was impressive.

            “No, no, no, no, no, no,” Jascha pleaded and he lunged to stop Henry’s bow. “Nevermind, I was wrong.”

            Lukas laughed, “It took you three years to learn that technique. I think Henry did rather well. At least he shook the right arm.”

            “It took me three years?” Jascha asked. “I don’t even remember. I just kinda woke up one day knowing how to play Brahms.”

            “It did indeed take you three years,” Kassia hugged her son as Alphonse wandered into the room.

            “I thought you sounded pretty good, all things considering,” he said. “I just finished setting the table for--”

            In an instant, Jascha and Henry set down their violins and ran upstairs to get their partners.

 

* * *

 

            It was amazing how Victor could go from the most touch-repulsed creature in existence to a completely clingy bastard. Fortunately, it seemed that Ernest was willing to indulge Victor’s lunacy for the time being, letting him practically climb into his lap as he wrapped his arms tight around his middle. Victor’s skin itched and cried for the contact but he was far too concerned with ensuring Ernest’s beating heart to ever worry about such a small thing as his own comfort.

            His quiet weeping petered out into miserable sniffles at an impressive rate. Too impressive, Victor reflected darkly. He wasn’t supposed to cry, after all. The absence of noise plunged the room into an uncanny kind of silence, punctuated only by odd little assurances from Ernest. The guilt coursing his body appeared as a physical ache now and Victor curled tighter to fight it off. Wasn’t he just wonderful? Taking what should have been a simple request from Henry, a valid question, and making it into yet another crisis. Forcing his brother into an apology with his pitiful behavior. Though Ernest had never reacted to his mania and panic the same way the others did, with unending empathy and understanding. He had limits. The reasoning earned Victor the barest string of assurance.

            “I’m sorry.” Victor repeated, voice still weak as a newborn kitten.

            “I forgive you. I already said I did.” Ernest repeated the words as if on a loop, leaving Victor to wonder just how many times he’d apologized sum total while sobbing his guts out.

            “I meant for getting snot on your pants.” Victor corrected himself miserably.

            That earned a little laugh from Ernest, hesitant but real. “It’s okay.” He said softly. “I bought them using your gift cards.”

            Victor blinked, trying to decipher what this brother was talking about, while beside him, Ernest stiffened.

            “I-- I meant--” Ernest started to say before it clicked.

            “Oh, you meant our aunt’s gift cards.” Victor said slowly. Within his mind, he reached out blindly to push aside whatever anger was set to rise at the idea of Ernest stealing from him, only to find there was none present; only a voided hole where his rage usually sweltered and swelled and screamed. “That’s good. They would have gone to waste.”

            “I…yeah.” Ernest sounded vaguely confused. “I used them to buy some clothing for Jascha.”

            Another twinge to add to the ache. “I didn’t give him anything to wear.” Victor confessed quietly. “I left him naked. He had to wrap himself in a lab coat.”

            “Well…” Ernest shifted and Victor clutched onto him tighter, like some kind of demented koala bear, “knowingly or not, you funded my quest to make him look like a sexy vampire so I think that makes up for it.”

            “I should apologize to him.” Victor mumbled, only half listening to Ernest. “I’m not sure I ever properly did.”

            “You can do that over dinner.” Ernest said. The thought of food made Victor instinctively want to puke, the ghost of seventeen-year-old him still pounding from behind the wall of glass and twisted steel shattered by his nightmare. He thought he recovered well but Ernest seemed to notice. “You can eat toast if you’d like to.” He said, brushing a bit of hair out of Victor’s eyes. “I’m sure Dad wouldn’t mind.”

            “And you can read minds.” Victor supplied, glancing up to him.

            “Nah,” a small smile graced Ernest’s still pale face, “you’re just really predictable.”

            More expected anger; more nothing where it should be. Victor latched onto the pallor of Ernest’s face with no small measure of panic. He sat up and was immediately forced to bend over again as his vision danced pure white. Blood pressure drop. Panic attack. Right. As Ernest laid a hand on his shoulder, Victor pushed himself up again, more slowly. “How are you doing?” He asked, staring intently at Ernest.

            Victor didn’t need to specify what he was talking about as Ernest’s expression pinched and wavered. “Jascha’s helped me a lot with comforting me and helping me through things. Making me feel safe. Still I’m…” he trailed, “it’s been hard.” He admitted. “It was really hard after, especially with trying to balance the stress of coming home…realizing I couldn’t go back to the frat.” He smiled again, half nostalgia, half bitterness. “As terrible as that place was it was also, like, my second home, you know?”

            “I know.” Victor agreed softly. He pressed his shoulder to Ernest’s and, for a brief moment, let his mind drift behind the glass. It was broken now anyway and it would take him a bit of time to repair. “My apartment in Ingolstadt had a really fat orange cat named Mädchen. She absolutely hated me. Used to come into the bathroom while I was showering and hiss at me for daring to bring water into her abode.”

            Ernest snorted. He leaned his head against the top of Victor’s and Victor was shocked to discover that Ernest had almost the exact same hair texture as their mother. “My roommates used to watch Shrek, like, nightly, almost always while drunk. I’ve got the entirety of Donkey and Fiona’s ogre exchange memorized.”

            Victor managed a weak chuckle at that. “Now you have to do it.” He prodded.

            “Uh, no.” Ernest laughed. “I’m so sick of that movie. That and Animal House. I swear I’ll never watch that one again.”

            “Animal House?” Victor asked. “Bit cliche, isn’t it?”

            “I think it was meant to be ironic.” Ernest shrugged.

            Victor highly doubted it was. “There was this really good bookstore down the street from where I worked. It sold all these old fashioned anatomy and physiology textbooks complete with crazy long inscriptions and notes. Very Freud.”

            “Ugh.” Ernest’s nose crinkled in disgust. “That’s horrid.”

            “They were fun to make fun of.” Victor said as he reached around and absently began to fiddle with Ernest’s hair. “And the drawings were top notch. What’s your favorite place on campus?”

            “You’ll hate my answer.”

            Victor eyed him. “It’s your duty as my brother to say the biology labs.”

            Ernest smiled apologetically.

            “At least say an academic building.” Victor begged.

            “Soccer pitch.”

            “Fucking jocks.”

            “You’re just jealous.” Victor didn’t miss the way Ernest’s shoulders relaxed from being hiked around his ears nor the increased ease of his expression. “What was your favorite part of Ingolstadt?”

            “Morgue.”

            Ernest stared at him for a long time. “You really are just that weird, huh?” He finally said.

            Victor grinned. “Hey, it’s not as bad as it could have been. You could have had a necrophiliac for a brother.”

            “Are you trying to tell me you’re not a necrophiliac. Because I’ve heard about some of the things you and Lizzie watched as teens and--”

            “So,” Victor changed the subject as quickly as possible, “what else about the frat?”

            Ernest sighed and the air around him seemed to cool a fraction. “I don’t know. I guess what I liked most about the frat was Jascha.”

            Victor nodded before remembering that any stray movement meant potentially driving Ernest away, which was absolutely unacceptable. “Then I guess...you didn’t really lose the frat at all, did you?”

            Ernest paused. “What do you mean?”

            “Well, if you’ve still got Jascha and he was the best part of the frat...kinda still got the frat.” Victor paused. “Minus all the bad stuff like drunk assholes and homophobes.”

            “Huh.” Ernest appeared to consider it for a moment. “I mean, I guess so.” His tone was one of bewilderment, as if he couldn’t believe Victor had said something smart. Yet, Victor still didn’t feel any anger. This was getting to be disconcerting.

            He briefly thought about trying to manufacture hatred and seeing if that prompted a real response but the idea brought on a wave of dread so powerful, Victor swore he would have bent double if he wasn’t sitting down. “Jascha and you seem good for each other.” Victor finally decided to say. “You both...speak the same language.”

            Ernest nodded sagely. “Russian.”

            Victor shoved him lightly. “Shut up, I’m trying to be nice.”

            “I know.” Ernest said, just a bit too earnesty to be brushed aside as a joke. “I appreciate it.”

            “Good.” Victor said stiffly. “I-- good.” He couldn’t think of anything sarcastic to say and, honestly, he didn’t want to do anything to ruin Ernest’s fragile trust in him. He reached around and awkwardly patted Ernest’s shoulder. “We’ll be okay.” He said, only half sure of what he was referring to.

            “Yeah.” Ernest agreed. “We will be.”

            There was a beat of silence in which Victor struggled to reconcile with the fact that he’d just had an entire, emotionally charged conversation with his brother that hadn’t ended with one or both of them screaming, crying, or, like, threatening death. Well, with Victor threatening death. He made one last search for anger and, finding none, crossed back into the safer parts of his brain.

            “So, do you know when dinner is?”

            “I’m assuming soon.” Ernest said. “We’ve been up here for, like, at least an hour and a half.”

            “That long?” Victor asked. Time flew by when you were crying and trying not to be terrible, he guessed. “Should we go down?”

            “Do you want to?”

            Victor thought for a second. “No.” He finally decided, snuggling farther into Ernest’s side. “They can come get us when they’re ready.”

 

* * *

 

            “We’re just going to go up and check,” Jascha repeated as they casually half-jogged up the stairs. “Just...check.” There hadn’t been any shouting or banging, which either meant they’d killed each other or everything was fine. Odds were...sixty-forty. At best.

            “Jascha, they’re okay,” Henry said gently.

            “Mhm,” Jascha nodded without hearing. He didn’t even bother knocking once they reached the door. He opened it and felt his heart bottom out as he saw neither form moving. “...Ernest?”

            “Hm?” Ernest stirred. Not dead. Jascha took a breath of relief. Victor moved slightly, but appeared to be asleep, coiled around Ernest like a koala.

            “Dinner time,” Henry said gently.

            “Okay,” Ernest said with a sleepy smile. He squeezed Victor’s shoulder gently. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Ready to go downstairs?”

            Victor’s grip tightened in response. “...No.”

            “Unfortunately, you need to,” Ernest said lightly. “Do you need me to carry you?”

            This seemed to light a spark under Victor. He got up quickly. “Absolutely not.” Henry smiled as Victor glued himself by his side. With Victor safely tucked beside Henry, Jascha was free to go to Ernest. He wrapped him in a tight hug, relieved to see him content and in one piece.

            “I was so worried,” Jascha sighed against his cheek. Ernest pat him lightly on the shoulder.

            “I told you we’d be okay,” Ernest said gently.

            As they made their way back down to the rest of the house, they heard laughter from the dining room. It made Jascha smile, especially considering the absolute nightmare they’d all been living in for the past few days. Jascha wandered over to his mother, who was already seated at the dining room table, and bent down to hug her around her shoulders. An old routine for them, he was sure that it seemed juvenile to the Frankensteins. She, however, didn’t care. She reached up and patted his head comfortingly.

            “Did it go well?” She whispered, softly enough that only he could hear.

            “Mhm,” Jascha nodded as he pulled away, sitting down beside her.

            Dinner was quiet for the first several minutes, save for William triumphantly butchering the ‘useful’ phrases his father had taught him in Russian, including such hits as ‘no, I can’t come out today I need to repair a harp,’ and ‘I’m sorry I’m late, I needed to resize a bridge.’

            “Ernest, I realized I never properly asked what you were hoping to do once you graduated,” his mother said, quickly cutting off William’s attempt to ask his father about how to threaten people in Lithuanian.

            “Oh, I wanna do sports medicine,” Ernest smiled. “Maybe see about doing some coaching, too. I’m gonna be working at a sleep-away soccer camp for most of the summer.”

            “Oh, you heard back from them?” Alphonse asked gently.

            “Yup!” Ernest beamed.

            “‘Soccer camp?’” His father asked. “There are camps for sports?”

            “Yeah,” Ernest smiled. “It’s to help get kids ready for their fall seasons.”

            “Right,” his father said, slightly skeptically.

            “It’s like music camp, I think,” Jascha offered his dad. “Like when I’d go to Interlochen.”

            “Ah,” his father nodded. “That makes more sense.”

            “Uncle Jascha, are you going to be a performer?” William asked. An all-consuming pit formed in Jascha’s stomach.

            “That...was the plan,” Jascha said sadly. He was legally dead. And, even with his hands getting better every day, there was no guarantee that he’d be able to return to his old practice regimen.

            “Was?” His mother asked nervously.

            “I…” Jascha stared at his plate. “Mom, I can’t. Right?”

            “Why not?” Her brow furrowed. Jascha shifted in discomfort now that all eyes were on him.

            “I mean,” Jascha hesitated. He breathed a little easier once Ernest squeezed his hand. “I’m, you know. Legally...dead,” Jascha said the last word like it was poison.

            “Sweetheart…” His mother said sympathetically, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure we can find a way around that.”

            Alphonse smiled. “We almost certainly can,” he said confidently.

            Ernest gave his hand a squeeze. “Dad’s, like, the best lawyer in Chicago,” he said with a smile. “And you’re clearly alive. He can make it work.”

            “Really?” Jascha glanced to Alphonse, who nodded.

            “All I need is the paperwork, and some information from Victor and your parents,” he said calmly. “This shouldn’t be too complicated.”

            “Okay,” Jascha nodded cautiously. “How long would it take?”

            Alphonse thought for a moment, and glanced to his parents. “Depending on when we get started, maybe a couple weeks?” He smiled reassuringly. “Death certificates are relatively easy to work around, especially since the truth is that you lived.”

            Jascha smiled. “Can I perform again in a couple weeks?”

            “So soon?” His mother asked.

            “I can’t remember all the phone numbers for my friends at Juilliard,” Jascha said earnestly. “If I perform, they can know I’m okay.” He was thinking specifically of his chamber group and his ballerina friends. Maybe also his first-year roommate. They certainly all knew about his death, which must have been unpleasant to say the least.

            “I’ll make it a priority,” Alphonse said firmly. Ernest grinned at Henry and Victor.

            “This means we’ll need concert clothes,” Ernest said happily.

            “Concert clothes?” Victor asked suspiciously. “Are those different from normal clothes?”

            Jascha felt his mother and father stiffen. He smiled awkwardly. “It’s...a more formal look than, uh,” he gestured to the t-shirt and ripped jeans Victor was wearing for the second day in a row. “That.”

            “I think it sounds fun,” Henry smiled. “I could use some new clothes.”

            “Tomorrow, then?” Ernest asked excitedly.

            “Maybe,” Victor said hesitantly. “We’ll see.”

            “It wouldn’t be for a few more weeks,” Jascha reminded Ernest. Shopping with him was...an experience. One that he wasn’t sure he could handle more than once in a year.

            “I know,” Ernest said. “But it would be fun,” he beamed. He nudged Jascha’s knee under the table. “My treat.”

            Jascha sighed. “Fine. We can go tomorrow if Victor and Henry want to.”

 

            After dinner, Jascha and Ernest went upstairs, settling against one another in the safety of Ernest’s bed. Jascha was exhausted. Worrying all day about Ernest was hard, even now that he had other supports. He curled around him with his head on his chest.

            “How did the soccer conversation go?” Jascha asked sleepily.

            “Great,” Ernest said as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I mean, it was rough, but pretty good. I saw Carson, too.”

            “Carson was there?”

            “Yeah, he was worried,” Ernest said quietly. “We both talked to him.”

            “What happened?” Jascha asked.

“Nothing much,” Ernest sighed. “Liam, is, like, also into dudes. And I think he’s been, like, really worried about all the same stuff I was worried about.”

            “What did Carson say?” Jascha asked, genuinely curious. Carson was the other unofficial head of the soccer team, as far as he could tell. He’d been one of the ones Ernest was most concerned about during his early moments of panic.

            “He was actually really chill,” Ernest said contentedly. “I talked to Liam about my own stuff, and how I was worried a lot too, which helped. Carson basically told him that if anyone on the team gave him a hard time he’d step in,” Ernest paused. “Which is actually really great. Carson is probably gonna be captain next year, which means the guys will listen to him.”

            “That’s great,” Jascha smiled, hugging Ernest tighter.

            “I feel kinda dumb now for all my anxiety about the team,” Ernest said lightly.

            “Good,” Jascha said sleepily. “Better that than being right.”

            “Yeah,” Ernest breathed. “So much better than being right.” There was a pause. “Also, I told him that you and I would take him out for lunch sometime this weekend.”

            “What?” Jascha felt a prick of anxiety.

            “Yeah,” Ernest said, slightly apologetically. “He said he felt really alone, so I offered to have you and I spend time with him. Since, like. We’re gay.”

            “Okay,” Jascha relaxed a little. “Will I need to know things about sports?”

            “Nah,” Ernest rubbed his shoulder. “I mean, maybe a little. But I’ll be there.”

            “Okay,” Jascha sighed. “Which kind of soccer does he play?”

            “You mean position?” Ernest laughed. “Defense.”

            “That’s...uh…” Jascha searched his memories. “He stands by the box and kicks people who try to get the goal?”

            “Basically, yup.” Ernest kissed the top of his head. “You’re gonna need to figure out soccer if we’re gonna be seen in public together,” he said lightly.

            “Only if you figure out music,” Jascha snuggled closer. “Yesterday you asked my dad what a viola was.” Ernest laughed.

            “It just looked like a fat violin,” Ernest said in defense.

            “My dad is going to revoke his consent for you dating me,” Jascha laughed.

            “He better not,” Ernest hugged him tighter. “I only heard him use the word ‘boyfriend’ to describe me yesterday.”

            “Then you better know which instruments are which,” Jascha said sleepily, closing his eyes. He was completely content now that they were alone. He was surprisingly tired following his day of worrying. Ernest shifted into a slightly better sleeping position, still cuddling closely against him. Jascha found his hand and kissed it.

            “I’m finally going to fix Victor’s clothes,” Ernest said, his voice finally becoming quiet with sleepiness. “He’s going to be presentable.”

            Jascha decided that now was not a good time to voice his skepticism. “Mhm,” he hummed, letting sleep take over.

            “It’s gonna be so fun,” Ernest sighed, sinking his weight against Jascha.

            “You should let me pick out an outfit for you,” Jascha said blearily.

            “Maybe,” Ernest laughed quietly. “I love you, but you dress like a teenage art kid.”

            “I love you too,” Jascha said happily, too sleepy to hear the slight against his clothes.


	57. Snuggles and Struggles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry snuggles with Victor. Victor sleeps with Henry. Jascha comforts his mom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello All! Thanks for sticking with us so far! The end is nigh so happy things are afoot! 
> 
> Content Warnings for this chapter include: panic attacks and descriptions of past trauma

            “So, it went well?” Henry asked as he snuggled Victor after dinner. He was soft and clean and smelled like cedar wood.

            Victor pressed his ear against Henry’s chest and kept his arms wrapped around Henry’s middle. The weight was warm and comforting around his hips. “Mhm, Ernest is nice.”

            “I know,” he whispered into Victor’s hair. “He is very nice. And he’s going to get us new clothes.” Henry was way more excited than he had any right to be. He had forgotten to get his clothes the last time he went to the apartment because he got distracted with fire. He had been living off Victor’s clothes and William’s shampoo and he was desperate for his own stuff. Victor not only had an abysmal sense of style, but he was also distinctly smaller than Henry so none of his pants actually got to his ankles and it needed to end soon. Sweaters. He was going to buy so many sweaters with other people’s money.

            “I don’t need new clothes,” Victor whined. The sound of his voice reverberated through Henry’s chest.

            “You do, and besides, so do I.” Henry smiled. “I don’t think I’ve worn a true suit in...I don’t know, years.”

            “You look cute in suits,” Victor mumbled.

            “So do you. The cutest.” Henry nuzzled into the top of Victor’s head. Victor so rarely dressed up and when he did, he was adorable. Like a non-consumptive Victorian dandy. Henry maneuvered them so they were lying on the bed. Victor still kept his head resting on Henry’s chest and he cast his leg over his hips.

            “You’re snuggly.” Henry played with Victor’s hair.

            “You’re soft,” he countered. “I’ve missed you.”

            “Why?” Henry asked. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

            “It’s different when bad things are happening,” Victor said as he pressed his fingers along the inside of Henry’s wrist. “You’re here,” he said as if he were surprised. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

            “I am here,” Henry confirmed. “Nothing’s going to happen to you either. We’re safe. We’re safe for real this time.”

            “We are safe,” Victor repeated. Henry stroked Victor’s side and was comforted by the steady expanding and contracting of his ribs. His skin was warm and soft and his shirt was scrunched up over his belly. Henry wanted so badly to kiss him.

            “You’re handsome,” Henry babbled nonsensically. “Handsome and soft and snuggly. My lover. I love you.”

            “I love you too,” Victor whispered. “Can I kiss you?” He asked.

            Henry was surprised. He really didn’t think Victor would want to do anything like that after talking about the hell hole that was Ingolstadt. “I...umm, yeah, if you really want to,” Henry said. He was surprised he sounded so nervous. It was Victor, after all. His Victor.

            “I do want to,” he murmured. “I always want to kiss you.” He raised his hand to Henry’s cheek and ran his thumb across his skin. He kissed the bridge of Henry’s nose before moving to his lips. Despite the days, weeks, months of hardship, they were soft and warm. Everything about Victor was warm. He was bursting with honey-soft light.

            Henry kissed him back, soft and light as the rain. He closed his eyes as Victor twined his arms around his neck and caressed the tender spot behind his ear. Henry tipped his head back and invited Victor to deepen the kiss. He did and pressed his chest flush against Henry’s.

            “You do know how,” Henry whispered when Victor broke away to breathe.

            “I know how to what?” He asked in between sweet kisses to Henry’s cheeks and nose.

            “You do know how to make your own light,” Henry clarified. “You told me once that you didn’t, but you do.”

            “You taught me.” Victor snuggled into the crook of Henry’s neck leaving even more kisses at the juncture of his jaw. When Henry kissed there, he could feel Victor’s pulse underneath his lips. Victor seemed enraptured by the sensation. “You taught me everything I know about being a good person.”

            Another day, Henry would have to debate him. Convince him that Victor had always been a good person that was filled with passion and love and hope. Another day, they could talk through their worries and fear. They could plan for the future and whatever that may bring. Today, Henry was content to hold his lover and feel the beating of his heart, his wonderful heart, against his chest.

            “What are we going to do now?” Victor asked as he resettled his head against Henry’s shoulders. “We have the rest of winter break stretched out before us.”

            “I could work on my thesis,” Henry mused, already missing Victor’s lips against his skin. “We could have snowball fights with William, bake with Kassia and Lukas, listen to Jascha play the violin.” Henry smiled at all the wonderful possibilities. “I want to play soccer with Ernest or go ice skating with you. Maybe we could get Alphonse to take us to the bookmill and we can get hot chocolate and cider.”

            “It’s been so long since we’ve been skating,” Victor hummed happily into Henry’s clavicle.

            Henry blushed. Yeah, it had been a long time and so many things had happened. “I’ve missed it,” Henry said simply. “It used to be my pride and joy before poetry came around.”

            “I remember your last routine.” Victor said, a hint of sadness marring his voice. “I made everyone go see. Even Lizzie enjoyed it. You were amazing. I’m sorry you had to stop.” Victor kissed the tender spot at the base of Henry’s neck.

            “I’m sorry I had to stop too,” he said, fighting back the urge to moan against Victor’s touch.

            “I remember when you finished and the music stopped,” Victor paused for a moment and cocked him head. “It was Symphony Fantastique, right?” Henry nodded. “You were always so brave. You were kneeling with your arms outstretched and I could tell your heart was so full of love. I could see it in your eyes.

            Henry laughed. “I wasn’t allowed to wear my glasses. I couldn’t see anything. I thought I was going to run into the wall half a dozen times.”

            “But you didn’t.” Victor kissed his lips again and Henry thought he might melt. “I can’t believe I get to spend the rest of my life with you.” he mused sleepily. “Someday we’ll get married and we’ll have a dog and kids.” Henry felt his heart skip a beat as Victor’s voice rose. “We are going to have such a beautiful life,” Victor said as he pressed a kiss to Henry’s heart.

 

* * *

 

            Victor couldn’t sleep. Which did, admittedly, make sense given that he’d been at least half asleep since the morning but for once it didn’t really bother him. Not when he was wrapped around Henry’s sleeping form, when he could hear his heartbeat, calm and steady and real. That was more than enough to put him into a relative state of ease.

            It wasn’t perfect, of course, not yet. Not as long as Victor could still see the purple bruises ringing Henry’s neck, hazy in the thin moonlight from the window, or as long he could trace the fractures in his mind with jagged edges and open wounds. But the bed was soft and the night near to silent save for Henry’s even exhales.

            Victor could imagine himself being happy like this. He was already happy with Henry there.

Henry Happiness.

His thoughts were draining fuzzy with lack of energy which, in turn, meant that he was loopy and wanted nothing more than to lay across Henry’s chest for the rest of his foreseeable existence. Who needed school, after all? Victor had all break to reprise his role as the clingiest person ever to live and Henry would just have to deal with it. Victor glanced towards Henry’s peaceful face and smiled fondly. Not that Henry would really complain either, he was sure. After everything that had happened between the two of them, after Meredith and Lawrence. In these still beginning stages of grief, Henry deserved to be able to take comfort in his family’s presence. In Victor’s undiluted affection. And Victor deserved to be held. Basic human rights for Victors.

He snorted as he rolled his face farther into Henry’s soft stomach. He needed sleep. He needed to be aware enough tomorrow to prevent Ernest from sticking him in some fancy ruffled suit jacket or whatever it was he thought was in style this season. Maybe Victor could convince his brother that a blazer and t-shirt would look nice for a concert. Going for that chill but still kinda sleep deprived scientist look would be ideal. Though, Henry wanted to see him in a real suit so he’d probably end up indulging him yet.

Victor let his eyes sink closed and opened them just as quickly as his pulse jumped. It had been at least a year since his last nightmare discounting this morning’s but today had served to remind him just how nasty they could be when they came. He could vividly remember the ones that happened about a year after he came home, horrid terrors which left him sleepless for days on end and led to him being reported to the RA for ‘concerning behavior.’ As if it his neighbor had any right to judge his four am, fifteen expresso binges when he had sex with his girlfriend right against the side of the wall Victor slept on.

There had been enough terror this week without willingly inviting Henri Brandt into his subconscious. A sudden crawl worked its way up his arm, radiating from the places Henry was pressed against him. Victor paused and, despite the pain of breaking contact, sat up on his elbows. He studied Henry’s face with a critical eye. The physical similarities between him and Brandt were unfortunate, though whether they were accidental or the result of Victor’s misplaced affections were up in the air. Blond hair, naturally strong arms, a sweet flush in both eyes and the voice. Victor took a breath and pulled one of Konig’s old coping mechanisms from a dusty corner of his mind. Count the differences.

One. Henry’s cheeks were sharper, well defined against the flesh without being anything close to skeletal. They framed his glowing, if slightly paled, face.

Two. Freckles stretched like constellations against a bright moon. Not entirely visible at first glance but radiant once you let your eyes adjust.

Three. Henry’s hair was less blond. It edged towards honey colored and was a teeny bit wavy in portions. Victor reached forward and ran his hand through it gently, careful not to disturb his resting lover. It was softer too. Fluffy.

Four. Henry smelled different, like vanilla and dust and old books. Crisp and mellowed. Like a fall day spent by an open library window, reading only for pleasure.

Five. Victor ran a hand up his lover’s arm lightly. Less hairy, with only a light dusting of blond. A dumb distinction, but also completely essential.

Six. As Victor allowed himself to settle back on Henry’s chest, he sighed. Different heartbeat.

Seven. Amber eyes. Bright, good, passionate, staring at him not in heady adoration or belligerent jealousy but with honest truth. Eyes that could see the world not only as it was but as the best version of what it could be. Eyes that saw him the same way.

Sometimes Victor swore he could drown in the warmth those eyes exuded, their brilliance and blinding light. But, no, blinding wasn’t the right word. It was guiding, drawing, a steady kindle against a cold winter’s night, a lantern swinging from the front of a carriage, a candle placed between two lovers, small yet infinite in its influence and power, casting tenderness and clarity to every corner. And, hey, maybe Henry was right. Maybe Victor had a bit of that light too, a pitiful smoking which Henry had kindled within his soul and set ablaze with his gentle touch.

Victor laughed softly against Henry’s nightshirt. He really _did_ need to sleep if he was thinking in fucking poetry. He forced himself to lie still as his giggling prompted Henry to shift, arms instinctively moving to cross behind Victor’s back.

He grinned at Henry. “I’m your teddy bear now, huh?”

“Yup.” Victor blinked in surprise as he felt Henry cuddle him closer, voice thick with sleep. “You’re my teddy bear.”

“How long have you been awake?” Victor whispered in amusement only to find Henry had nodded off again. Dummy, Victor thought affectionately.

After taking a few moments to relish the pressure of Henry’s hug, Victor carefully untangled himself and settled to one side of his lover, paying special care to keep his back to the wall.

“You’ll take care of me.” Victor breathed. “I trust you.”

With delicate care, he allowed his eyes to slip closed, surrendering to the dense cover of sleep clouding through his chest and limbs. Victor buried his face into Henry’s side and draped a hand across his stomach, rise and fall, rise and fall. Rise and fall. It didn’t matter how poisonous his dreams were, after all, if Henry Clerval was there to catch him when he woke up.

 

* * *

 

            Jascha was a light sleeper, probably due to his crippling childhood anxiety. He woke up completely at around three in the morning, for no discernable reason. He checked Ernest; usually if he woke up it was because Ernest was awake or had shifted into a less than optimal position. But he was fine, sleeping soundly on his side. Jascha checked himself. He had utterly no recollection of any nightmares, so it couldn’t be that. The cat? Nope. Sleeping on top of Ernest’s side in a profoundly cute ball. He heard a sound; the faint thrum of voices down the hall. That’s where his parents were sleeping. Jascha got up cautiously, exiting the room as quietly as possible.

            From the hall, the voices were louder. Less whispers and more low conversational volume. Except for the crying. His mother was crying. He headed down the hallway and knocked lightly on the door. “Mom?” He asked. The voices stopped, but he heard someone get up. Within seconds, his father opened the door. “What happened?”

            “Nightmare,” his father said easily. He looked tired, but besides that unphased.

            “Jascha?” His mother asked, voice wavering from tears. “Lukas, let him in.” His father obliged, and Jascha wandered over to the bed. Before he could even sit, his mother had her arms around him. He held her, unused to being the one comforting her.

            “Mom?” Jascha asked. He ran his fingers over her hair. The last time he’d seen it loose was when the two of them had the flu back when he was in high school. It was a bad sign.

            “I’m okay, baby,” she said weakly. “I’m sorry,” she said as she sat up and wiped her eyes. “I just had a bad dream,” she smiled at him miserably, and pressed a hand to his cheek. “It’s okay now, though. Because you’re okay.”

            “I’m okay,” Jascha repeated. He glanced to his father, who sat beside him on the bed. “Is this about the shopping trip tomorrow? I don’t have to-”

            “It’s not,” his father said calmly. Jascha cocked his head, running through what else it could possibly be besides the car trip to the city. His father must have noticed the look on his face, since he placed a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. “Your mother and I need to talk to Alphonse about what happened,” he said quietly.

            “Okay,” Jascha nodded slowly, worried as his mother’s grip on his hand tightened.

            “It will help us prepare for the concert,” his father continued. “And for your career. He needs to know the details for the case.”

            “Ah,” Jascha nodded again. Details. Those were...bad, if his own nightmares were true.

            “None of it can actually be real,” his mother said uncertainly. “Right? This- all of this- I must have been wrong, that night at the hospital.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “People don’t come back,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. “So obviously I was wrong and you didn’t die.”

            “Mom,” Jascha bit his lip. Apparently he’d been dating Ernest long enough to develop his tells. “I don’t think you were wrong,” he said quietly. “I can remember some of it.” His mother looked up at him with painful sympathy.

            “Really?” His father asked, a tinge of concern in his still-even voice.

            “Yeah,” Jascha said. He was suddenly acutely aware of his scars. Not the ones Victor made, but the _real_ ones. The ragged, unhealthy tears alone his pelvis and along his arms. They’d clearly been stitched and treated, but no amount of bioengineered miracle goo could prevent such jagged wounds from leaving scars. He leaned his head against his father’s shoulder. “...I have all the scars, too.”

            “Scars?” His mother’s brow furrowed. Jascha closed his eyes and nodded.

            “Do you want to see them?” He asked softly, unmoving from his father’s shoulder. He had no idea why he asked. He hated showing people the marks. But these were his parents, and if it would help this nightmare-turned-daydream feel real, then it would be okay. There was an oppressive silence between the three of them.

            “I would,” his father finally broke the tension.

            “What?!” His mother looked at his father with terror. “No. No way,” she looked desperately back to Jascha. “You’ve never had a scar before. You’ve never been hurt,” she said quietly, as if to cleanse him of the faults along his body.

            “I got hurt,” Jascha said, losing his fight with his feelings. He wasn’t quite crying, just choked up and less able to speak. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

            “It’s not your fault,” his parents said in unison. It surprised all of them. Jascha eased himself away from the safety of his father’s arm. He knew, somehow, that things would only be worse if his mother kept being able to tell herself that the accident and the grief were nothing but a long, shared nightmare. He took a deep breath and pulled his hoodie over his head, revealing the mixture of deliberate and accidental seams that lined his body. Watching the shock on their faces was like seeing the marks for the first time all over again. Even his father’s stoicism failed him as he covered his mouth with one hand. His mother seemed to be stunned silent.

            “I know it’s bad-” Jascha started.

            “Can I touch them?” His mother asked gently, her voice shaking almost as badly as her hands. From anyone else, this might have been an unwelcome question.

            “Yeah,” Jascha said, nearly inaudibly. His mother ran her delicate fingers first along the scars on his wrist, feeling the textural difference between the nasty original scar and the neat line from Victor’s surgery.

            “I remember this injury,” she said under her breath. “I saw it, in the ambulance.”

            “The bone came out,” Jascha affirmed stiffly. He was glad for the warmth and pressure of his father’s hand against the back of his neck.

            His mother moved onto the tidy, vicious line down his chest, touching the top of the I-shape of it. Her breath caught awkwardly as her eyes traced it’s full length from his sternum down to the waistband of his pants. “This…” she said in an airy whisper. “From the surgery? That Victor did?” Jascha could only nod.

            “Were there internal injuries?” His father asked, calm recovered.

            “I…” It was difficult to figure out how much of the surgery was necessity and how much was pure and utter Victor god-complex. “I know that there was something wrong with...my heart. Maybe my lungs,” he felt himself getting lightheaded, and from the looks of it, so was his mother. He decided to stop there. “Victor can, uh. Tell you more. Probably.”

            “We were planning to talk with him and Alphonse about the medical treatment,” his father said thoughtfully. “Possibly following your trip to town, if he is able.” Jascha shrugged. Victor’s limits were unpredictable at best.

            “You’ll do the legal paperwork while we’re out?” Jascha asked.

            “Yes,” his father nodded. “William will be at a friend’s house, so we will go with Alphonse to his office after we pick up the paperwork from home.”

            “It really happened,” his mother said absently. She took his hand. “I...Are you okay?” She asked, maternal instinct apparently overriding her shock and anxiety. She hugged him tightly. “I’m so sorry that you had to be alone for so long,” she said through her tears. “If-If we’d known, we never would have flown out to Moscow.”

            “It’s okay,” Jascha said, wrapping his arms around her awkwardly. He was a little cold without his sweater. “There’s no way you would have known. I couldn’t remember anything from before the accident until pretty recently.”

            “But we should have been here,” she said miserably. “We should have been at the apartment when you called.”

            “You wouldn’t have believed me,” Jascha said, with a tinge of unintentional bitterness. “The only reason Harvey believed me was because he’s, well. Harvey,” Jascha said, leaning against her shoulder. “It’s okay. None of it matters now.”

            “It does matter,” his mother said firmly. “All of it matters. You got hurt, and we weren’t-”

            “He’s right,” his father cut her off. “It doesn’t matter now. We have him back.”

            “It was a nightmare,” his mother said quietly as she pulled away from the hug. Jascha pulled his sweater back on, relaxing a little now that he was warm again. “It’s been such a nightmare,” she repeated quietly.

            “It’s almost done,” Jascha said gently. “All we need to do is paperwork.” That was mostly true. Of course, even with the paperwork in order, there was a good chance that all three of them would still be kept up at night by either the crash or the scene in the ambulance.

            “Does Ernest know?” His father asked.

            “About the crash, and Victor’s work?” Jascha thought back to all of that. He decided it might be best to wait to tell them that Ernest helped with the wrist surgery, and treated his wounds after Victor’s initial spell of cruelty. “Ernest knows about everything,” Jascha finally said. “He’s been a really important support for me.” An understatement, but it would do.

            “He’s a very sweet boy,” his mother said with a bittersweet smile. Jascha was relieved for the shift in conversation.

            “The sweetest,” Jascha said happily. There was a comfortable silence for several seconds.

            “We should let Jascha go back to bed,” his father finally said. His mother gave him a hesitant look, and he squeezed her hand.

            “I can sleep here if you want,” Jascha offered. He wanted desperately to go back to Ernest, but if it would help, he didn’t mind staying. He tried not to look relieved when his mother shook her head.

            “I’ll be fine,” she said with a nearly convincing smile.

            “Okay,” Jascha nodded, standing up. He gave her one more hug. “I’ll see you at breakfast,” he said quietly.

            “See you at breakfast,” his mother said gently. Once they broke their hug, she took his father’s arm and leaned on his shoulder. As Jascha left, part of him knew that his parents would probably not be getting much sleep.

            When he reached Ernest’s room, the bedside light was on and Ernest was awake. He had Maisie in his lap, who was contentedly snoozing in a tight ball. “Everything okay?” Ernest asked as he got back into bed.

            “Mhm,” Jascha hummed, pressing up against Ernest’s side and petting behind Maisie’s ears. “My mom had a bad dream, and I woke up to go check on her.”

            “Is she okay?” Ernest’s brow furrowed.

            “Yeah, I think so,” Jascha sighed. “She and my dad have to talk to your dad about the accident tomorrow. I think it’s hard for them.”

            “That makes sense,” Ernest said gently, wrapping an arm around him. “It’s hard for you, too.”

            “Yeah,” Jascha said sadly. “I showed them the scars,” he added.

            “How was that?” Ernest asked cautiously. Jascha shrugged.

            “It was rough,” Jascha said softly. “I...don’t really think that she believed that what happened _actually_ happened, so it was hard.” He paused. “Also, the scars are just really bad. Even without knowing about the accident.”

            “They aren’t bad,” Ernest said gently, kissing his cheek. “They’re just scars.”

            “Just scars,” Jascha repeated sleepily. Ernest turned off the bedside light and snuggled close against him, careful not to disturb the cat.

            “I can’t wait to dress you up tomorrow,” Ernest whispered. Jascha smiled and kissed his hand.

            “I don’t need more clothes,” he said lightly.

            “That’s fine,” he could hear Ernest’s smile in his voice. “It’s fun just to try things on.”

            “Do you have a plan for Victor’s outfit?” Jascha asked.

            “Not yet,” Ernest laughed. “Don’t tell him, but we’re going to a salon too. He needs a haircut _so_ badly.”

            “It’ll be fun,” Jascha said happily, sinking against Ernest. “I love you,” he said blearily.

            “I love you too,” Ernest said with a kiss. Jascha wrapped his arms around him, letting himself fall back asleep against the warmth of his shoulder.

 


	58. Queer Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry buys a suit. Victor is a flirt. Jascha doesn’t get clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you (as always) for reading! for those of you who have been with us from the start, welcome to the home stretch!

         “Good morning, sunshine,” Henry said as he nuzzled Victor awake. It wasn’t technically morning anymore, but technicalities were technicalities and Ernest was practically clawing at their door so they could go shopping.

        “What year is it?” Victor groaned and he tried to shove the pillow over his head.

        “2006, but not for much longer. Come on, we’re gonna hang out with Ernest and Jascha.” Henry calmly uncurled his lover’s fingers from the pillow.

        “I don’t need new clothes. I just need sleep. Sleep and you,” Victor whined as Henry placed a sweater and a pair of jeans in his hands.

        “You  do ,” Henry smiled. “And I’ll let you dress me up however you want,” he added with a smirk.

        “However I want?”

        “Anything that Ernest can find in my size,” he pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I am going to buy so many sweaters. It’s going to be totally wicked!”

        “Ernest might protest,” Victor said as he got dressed.

         Henry could hear a certain someone pacing in front of the door. “I most certainly will!” Ernest said as he stopped. “Sweaters are not appropriate concert attire.”

        “Come on, not even a sweater vest?” Henry asked through the door.

        “Definitely not a sweater vest. Those things are an abomination to both heaven and hell. I will not allow it.”

        “But think of the aesthetic,” Henry said as he held Victor’s hand and opened the door. Ernest, Jascha, and William were waiting for them. William bounded up to him like an excited golden retriever and hugged Henry’s middle. He hadn’t actually talked to him much, about what happened or anything. He needed to talk. William didn’t seem afraid anymore, but there was always the chance. Henry shook his head to clear the thought.

        “Are you coming with us, bud?” he asked.

        “I’m gonna stay home and help Dad and Lukas with stuff and things,” William smiled. At least he was smiling. The world was a bad place when William Frankenstein didn’t smile.

        “Okay,” Henry smiled and ruffled him hair.

        “Are you going to make Victor look like a human, Uncle Henry?” he asked, bouncing on his heels.

        “Victor already looks like a human.” This statement drew discontented hums from everyone in the room including Victor himself. “Et tu, Victor?” he asked.

        “I’m going for more a disincorporated vampire type look. Maybe _vampyre_ with a y because I know your into that type of thing,” Victor said with a shrug and a laugh. Laughter filled the Frankenstein house.

        The four adults walked down the stairs and began the rather laborious project of bundling themselves for the winter. Victor chose his heaviest coat, a hat, a scar, and gloves without any prompting from Henry. Jascha wore his new cashmere scarf with the ridiculous pink pompom hat they found earlier that month. It was a look, for sure, and Henry was kinda in love with it.

        “And you’ll drive safe,” Kassia repeated to Ernest for the millionth time as she wound and unwound Jascha’s scarf.

        “I promise,” Ernest said, calm and low. “Nothing is going to happen.”

        “You promise?” she asked.

        “I promise.” Ernest and Jascha said together.

        And with that, they were off on their great adventure. The inside of the car was alight with bubbling conversations that passed from person to person like toasting champagne.  They were light conversations, as easy as breathing; laughed stories about favorite colors, high school prom, and first performance. Jascha talked about violin and Henry talked about figure skating. Odd, how after all this time, it became a fixture of happiness once again.

        “You would have loved the fashion, Ernest,” Henry laughed. “I had all the sequins and glitter I could have possibly dreamed of.”

        “That sounds garish, I love it.” Ernest smiled as he pulled into the parking lot for the...place where they were getting the suits. Henry was sure there was a proper name for that, but he couldn’t remember it to save his life. Not that his life would need to be saved again.

        The store was a wash of navy blue, grey, and black with a smattering of creams and tans thrown in for flavor. Henry drifted over to the far left wall that was stocked with ties in every color imaginable as Ernest went to find someone who could help them. Henry did, after all, have no idea what he was doing. Victor came up behind him as silently looked over the colors.

        “You’d look good in yellows and oranges,” he said. After a moment of consideration he added, “or blueish teals. It would pop against your hair and eyes.”

        “Since when did you know anything about fashion?” Henry asked.

        Victor shrugged. “Since I learned some color theory.” his eyes fluttered over to Jascha and Ernest talking to two men. Henry understood.

        “I’m excited,” he said, holding Victor’s hand. His fingers were cool over his knuckles.

        “For what?” Victor asked, leaning against Henry’s shoulder. Neither of them were into PDA as a concept, but the affection was nice. Victor was nice.

        “For seeing you in a suit.” Henry dropped his voice. “Especially a nice one. I’ve heard they do...wonders.”

        “Sure, wonders for your libido,” Victor whispered. The two of them giggled before they were waved over by Ernest.

        “Okay, so here’s our game plan,” Ernest said. “We’re gonna want to get a three-piece suit, single breasted, or else what’s the point, right? Right. Color is up to you, but I suggest you follow my man Rafael’s tips because you two are entirely helpless,” he said gesturing first to Henry and Victor and then to the kind looking man standing in front of the jackets. “Henry, no sweaters. Victor, no t shirts. Get it? Got it? Good! Let’s go!”

        “Why doesn’t Jascha have any rules?” Victor asked.

        “Because Jascha is not a fashion disaster like the two of you,” Ernest said.

        “He exclusively wears flannel and denim!” Victor said as he flailed his arms.

        “Tough luck, listen to Rafael! You’ll do great!” Ernest called as he ushered Jascha towards a changing room.

        “So,” Rafael said as he clasped his hands in front of his chest. “What are you two looking for?”

        “The sweet release of death,” Victor said.

        “Make me look like an English professor!” Henry was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’ve been banned from sweaters, but I love bowties.”

        Their truly unfortunate helper smiled good-naturedly. “Tweed and charcoal it is then.”

        “Ooh, tweed!” Henry said as he dragged Victor to follow him. If he were being 100% honest, he didn’t really know anything about buying a suit. There was something about where the pockets should fall and the center button and notches in lapels, but it didn’t make any sense. If Henry remembered correctly, there were structured and unstructured suits and about a million ways for them to be tailored. And pleated pants. Henry needed pleated pants.

        Rafael brought by the suits and Henry and Victor tried them on. In all honesty, it was a little short on Henry, but that was just because he had such ridiculously long, gangly limbs. He did look rather good, if he did say so himself. Victor seemed to agree.

        And Victor! Victor looked completely dashing. He didn’t notice as Henry watched him adjust his collar in a mirror. Henry did a quick sweep of the room before he wrapped his arms around Victor’s shoulders and rested his chin on his hair.

        “You look very handsome,” Henry murmured. The dark gray suited Victor’s aesthetic, but didn’t make him seem overly pale. His brows furrowed so sweetly when he struggled to tie his tie. “Let me help.”

        Henry wasn’t exactly good at it either, but it gave him an excuse to stand very close to Victor and look dreamily into his eyes. They were so sparkly and Victor was so sweet and all Henry wanted to do was cuddle against him for the rest of his life. But alas, they were in public.

        “You’re very handsome too,” Victor smiled.      

        “Okay, you two lovebirds,” Ernest cut in and they both jumped. “If you’ve got everything all worked out, we’re gonna go someplace fun!”

        “More shopping?” Victor sounded mortified.

        “Yeah, at the place where I found a sexy pair of leather pants,” Ernest looked Victor up and down before turning to Henry. “So, do with that what you will.”

 

* * *

  

        Victor stared at the shirt, holding it out in front of him. Where was the...anything. He couldn’t find anything. Not the shirt hole, not the sleeves, not even a general shape, just an abundance of weird ruffles and puckish lace. “Ernest?” He called over the dressing room wall. “Are you, uh...are you  sure  this is from the men’s section?”

        “Don’t know.” Ernest called, a touch of amusement in his voice. “Henry found it.”

        Of course he did. The shirt was a perfect mix of Victorian high collar nonsense and flowy American peasant wear. It was like Henry’s and his aesthetics had produced a demented love child. He finally found the label and checked it. Surprisingly enough, it was sized for a man, though Victor had no idea who the intended audience was. Gay English majors, maybe. Shakespearean actors. Dandies.

            He grimaced. For Henry, he thought valiantly as he located the neck hole and wrestled it on. His hair got caught on a button during the process, which meant that Victor was forced to carefully untangle himself while just barely resisting the urge to tear the strands out entirely.

        “Doing okay?” Ernest asked after a few solid minutes of listening to Victor struggle and quietly curse.

        “Yes.” Victor snapped as he pulled the shirt on. He was still breathing a bit hard from the epic battle. “Hey, do you like, have a hair tie or something?”

        “Your hair isn’t long enough for a ponytail and I refuse to let you wear a man bun.” Ernest said. The disapproval in his tone was evident.

        Victor walked over to the door and popped his head out, passing Ernest a pained smile. “It’s either a man bun or I’m going to give myself a DIY buzz cut.”

        Ernest paled a degree, war flashbacks of Victor’s middle school fashion dancing before his eyes. “I’ll find one.” He said quickly.

         Victor smirked and retreated back into the changing room. A well-tailored pair of jeans, hand selected by Ernest, and an elastic hair tie completed his look. Victor looked himself over in the mirror, picking at the edging of the lace rounding his neck and making sure the ruffles by his wrists lay (mostly) even. He nodded in satisfaction as he willed a bright blush from his cheeks. He looked utterly ridiculous but really all that mattered was his ability to give Henry a boner in the middle of Gucci. He pulled open the door and stepped out.

        “Finally,” Ernest sighed, “I thought I was going to die waiting for you to-” Ernest stopped short, eyes skipping over Victor’s outfit. “Holy shit,” Ernest slapped a hand over his mouth to disguise his smile, “you look- Well, I mean-”

        “Like a character from a Victorian vampire porno.” Victor interrupted as confidently as he was able. “I think that’s kinda the point.”

            “Oh, wow.” Henry breathed. Victor turned to see him emerge from the other enclosed dressing room, dressed in the absolute tightest pair of jeans Victor could find, paired with a V-neck and a black leather jacket. He took a moment to let his brain store  _that_   image away for later use before flinging his arms wide.

            “Mr. Clerval.” Victor bowed lavishly. “I am at your service.”

            Henry walked towards him and Victor stole a small peak at his crotch. Success. He grinned brightly as he stuck his hands on his hips and made a show of looking Henry up and down. “You look incredibly hot.” Victor said. He turned to where Ernest was leaning against the wall with an exhausted looking Jascha by his side. “Isn’t Henry the absolute hottest man you’ve ever seen in your life?” He announced.

            “Victor.” Henry squeaked, a clear blush creeping up his cheeks followed by a small smile. He glanced nervously around the dressing area. “We’re in public.”

            “So?” Victor said. “Everyone needs to know that you’re the most attractive man in the universe. I’d shout it from the rooftops.”

            “Please don’t.” Ernest cautioned.

            “Like Ernest said.” Henry recovered. “Let’s just…keep it in the dressing room.”

            “Fine.” Victor groaned. “Probably for the best. If everyone knew how handsome you are, I’d have to battle other suitors for your favor.”

            Henry looked around again before quickly kissing Victor on the cheek. “It wouldn’t be much of a competition.” He whispered sweetly and Victor smiled with assured bliss.

            “You should buy the jacket.” Victor said only a bit pleadingly. “And the pants. Especially the pants.”

            Henry’s smile wavered a touch as he glanced himself over in the end mirror. “It’s not really my style…” He turned to Ernest and Jascha. “What do you guys think?”

            “You look very nice.” Jascha said encouragingly, still looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. A pile of bags, mostly filled with Henry’s abundance of patterned sweaters and a smattering of clothing Ernest insisted Jascha ‘absolutely needed,’ encased his legs like a mini fortress.

            “You look great!” Ernest said in surprised approval. “I honestly didn’t think Victor was capable of picking out  _nice_   clothes but-”

            “I have a great fashion sense.” Victor said lazily. “These are all choices.”

            Ernest grimaced. “It’s your choice to wear the same five science pun t-shirts on a rotation?”

            “Yes.” Victor said.

            “Okay, so,” Ernest smiled apologetically at Jascha, “we’re going to have to do a bit more shopping for Victor.”

            Jascha made a pained face. “We’ve been out for six hours.” He almost but not quite whined.

            “I know!” Ernest held up his hands in surrender. “But Victor never lets me shop for him and I  _ cannot  _ miss the opportunity to improve his wardrobe. I might even be able to make him acceptable to be with in public.”

            “I can hear you.” Victor called.

            Ernest offered both Victor and Jascha a set of truly horrifying puppy dog eyes. “Please? Just for a little while longer?”

            Jascha caved immediately. “Okay. For you.” He said as he began to gather the mass of bags into his arms.

            “Yeah, yeah, I’ll let you play dress up with me,” Victor rolled his eyes then grinned wickedly, “if you convince Henry to wear the pants out of the store.”

            Ernest looked expectantly to Henry, who thought it over calmly. To Victor’s surprise, he didn’t seem overly bothered or embarrassed by the proposition. “Sure,” he agreed, “I’ll do that…If you wear the shirt out.”

            Fuck. Victor tugged on his puffed out sleeve and stole one more look at Henry in all his skinny-jeaned glory. He sighed. “Deal. But know that this gives me full permission to use this shirt in all future roleplay sex.” He reached up and adjusted the collar of Henry’s jacket, letting his hand linger just a bit too long at the tender part of his neck. “I can pull off a  _very_   convincing Alucard.”

            Henry blushed a maddening shade of scarlet as behind him Ernest gagged.

            “We’re right here!” Ernest whisper shouted. “Literally right here!”

            “Giving you tips for the bedroom.” Victor said snidely as he continued to watch Henry dissolve into a beautiful mess of arousal. “You should be taking notes.”

            “From you?” Jascha asked doubtfully. “I’d sooner ask William.”

            Victor paused and raised an eyebrow. He aimed a long look at Jascha, who suddenly seemed unwilling to meet his eye. “You sassed me.” He said slowly as an awkward silence fell over the room and Victor straightened his high collar. The quiet broke when Victor giggled a bit, half from the joke, mostly from a sense of giddy relief which was only enhanced when Jascha laughed too. As long as Jascha was making fun of him, after all, it meant that he wasn’t as afraid of Victor as he had been before.

            The planned afternoon, which stretched into an unplanned evening, eventually ended with four new suits, three pairs of pants and a few casual shirts for Jascha, a mountain of sweaters, including a single smuggled sweater vest for Henry, and a number of very carefully planned outfits for Victor, courtesy of Ernest’s obsessive eye. He was forced to surrender his man-bun after Henry dragged him into a barber’s shop on the promise of helping him find a new anatomy-themed shirt to sneak into his cart and away from Ernest’s piercing gaze.

            By the time they arrived home, it was well past dinner. As soon as they hit the door, Henry made a bee-line to proudly show William his new vest while Jascha wandered into the living room, still completely beholden to Ernest’s rant about the proper ways to wear ponytails.

            Victor intended to follow Jascha and Ernest, hoping that he might be able to convince Ernest to cuddle with him again while he waited for Henry to reappear, but was stopped by a strong hand on his shoulder. He froze as a sharp seize of panic shot through his body. “Sorry,” Dr. Simonis’ deeply accented voice said as he released Victor. He didn’t sound very sorry but, then again, Dr. Simonis never sounded very anything.

            “It’s okay.” Victor recovered his breath and inched away from Jascha’s dad with as much stealth as could be managed. “What’s, uh…what’s up?”

            “I wanted to let you know that we will be talking tomorrow about Jascha’s surgery. With your father and my wife.” Dr. Simonis informed him flatly. “Three PM. Dining room.”

            “I…” It didn’t sound optional. Victor’s stomach flipped like a centrifuge set on high. “Okay.” He squeaked indignantly.

            “Good.” Dr. Simonis nodded. “See you then.” He walked away without further comment, leaving Victor standing alone in the hall, trying to decide whether this newest occurrence in his unsettled existence was worthy of panicking over.

             He didn’t even notice till Dr. Simonis left the hall that he was still wearing the Victorian dandy shirt.

 

* * *

  

        “Where do you want this?” Jascha asked, holding up a shirt. Dinner was done and now it was time to sort the clothes Ernest bought into his elaborately arranged closet.

        “What’s it made out of?” Ernest asked from the bed. He was brushing Maisie.

        “I don’t know,” Jascha frowned. “Cloth?”

        “Like, on the tag,” Ernest came over to help, pointing out the tag. “See? Cotton.”

        “Right,” Jascha nodded. “So it goes in the…” It was a nice shirt. But all Ernest’s clothes besides his normal sweaters and sweatpants were nice clothes. “...I don’t know.”

        “It’s dressy casual,” Ernest said as if it were a common thing for him to know.

        “So,” Jascha said carefully, “It goes on the right?”

        “Middle. Right is formal,” Ernest corrected gently. Jascha shot him a pained look.

        “Why am I doing this?” Jascha asked.

        “You offered to do it,” Ernest smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Do you want to just hand me things and I’ll put them away?” Jascha nodded.

        “That sounds better,” he said, bending down to lift the next garment from the bag. He paused as his fingertips brushed leather. “Ernest?”

        “Hm?” Ernest turned to him from where he was fixing all of Jascha’s sorting errors.

        “...What is this?” Jascha held up what he knew to be the exact leather pants he refused to let Ernest buy the last time he was subjected to fashion. Ernest gave him a grin.

        “They’re for you,” Ernest smiled, as if they were not in fact leather pants but were instead nice, normal people clothes like jeans.

        “I don’t wear leather,” Jascha said as he inspected the pants suspiciously. Ernest came over to him, taking the pants from him as he gave him a hug.

        “They’re for you to wear for me,” Ernest said with a smirk. “You know, when we go on dates and stuff.”

        Jascha’s brow furrowed. “We don’t go on dates,” he protested weakly as Ernest stretched up and gave him a kiss.

        “We don’t go on dates now because we’re living here and the city is forty-five minutes away,” Ernest said easily. “We will once we’re back to living closer to town.”

        Jascha shook his head. “I can’t wear those in public,” he said desperately. He could feel himself turning pink. “They’re too tight. Everyone could see, you know...everything.”

        “Maybe that’s the point,” Ernest said lightly. “It’ll be fun,” he urged with a bright smile.

        “I’d look like, I don’t know…” He has no idea what he’d look like. Were there male strippers? He’d probably look like that. “It would look weird if you looked, uh, dressy casual while I looked...goth,” Jascha had no idea if he used those words right. Ernest gave him a look.

        “You do know I own grayscale clothes, right?” Ernest asked gently.

        “What’s grayscale again? Black and white and gray?” Jascha couldn’t remember whether or not it included very dark shades of other colors or not.

        “You got it,” Ernest smiled encouragingly.

        “I just don’t understand,” Jascha said, looking back at the pants.

        “The point is that you’re hot,” Ernest said with a flirtatious kiss on the lips.

        “But what’s the point of them if you’re just going to take them off?” Jascha let the barest trace of a whine enter his voice. Ernest kissed him again.

        “The point is I like them, and everyone who sees you in them will like them,” he smiled.

        “Wrong,” Jascha said confidently. “My mother would not like them.”

        “Everyone except your mother,” Ernest laughed.

        “And my father,” Jascha added, happy to be at least partially winning the argument.

        “And your father,” Ernest sighed. “You’ll wear them when we aren’t with them.”

        “Once I go home and live with them again it will be hard to not be with them,” Jascha said lightly. It had been ages since he lived in his own house.

        “You should try them on,” Ernest said quietly.

        “Now?” Jascha asked, staring dubiously at the garment.

        “You didn’t try them on at the store,” Ernest smirked. “We should make sure they fit before we take off the price tag.”

        Jascha sighed, but took the pants from his arm. “I’m going to put them on in the bathroom,” Jascha said, knowing that whatever effect the final product might have on Ernest would be completely lost if he watched him struggle to get into them.

        “Okay,” Ernest beamed, already locking all the locks on his bedroom door.

        Inside the bathroom, Jascha got a closer look at the pants. Real leather, no doubt about it. The material was supple and stretchy under his fingers, though he was still highly skeptical of his ability to put it on. Nonetheless, he discarded his jeans and tried.

        The pants weren’t nearly as difficult as he’d expected, they were just skin-tight against his thighs in a way none of his jeans were, and they were borderline indecent in terms of how clearly they outlined his dick and ass. He’d admit he looked good in them, in a secret assassin sort of way. They were certainly nothing he’d ever wear in public willingly, and they looked a little silly with his t-shirt. He tucked the front of the t-shirt in, just so that it looked a little neater.

        Ernest was hovering expectantly by the bathroom door when he came out. Jascha blushed at the immediate grin that broke across Ernest’s face when he saw him, letting his dark gaze drink him in. Jascha felt oddly exposed, even though it wasn’t unusual for Ernest to look at him like that.

        “They’re perfect,” Ernest said hazily as he placed his hands on his hips.

        “They’re indecent,” Jascha said lightly, kissing his cheek.

        “They’re hot,” Ernest smirked. Jascha tensed as he ran his hand experimentally over his crotch. He could feel the warmth of Ernest’s skin through the thin leather. “These are great,” Ernest said hungrily as he teased him through the pants. It was uncomfortable to get hard in such close-fitting pants.

        “Ernest,” Jascha said quietly, his thoughts fuzzy as Ernest kept touching him. “It kind of hurts.” Whether or not Ernest heard him was hard to tell; he just pulled him into a starving kiss. Jascha rested his hands on his hips, sliding them under his shirt. Ernest’s skin was soft and warm. It had been more than a week now since the last time they’d felt comfortable enough to do anything like this, what with Henry’s mother, his parents coming back, and the whole nightmare with Lawrence.

        “Do you want to take them off?” Ernest asked in a breathy whisper. When he looked at him his cheeks were flushed pink and his eyes were eager.

        “Yeah,” Jascha breathed as Ernest helped him out of his t-shirt. “We need to be quiet,” he said breathlessly as Ernest unbuttoned his pants, relieving some of the pressure.

        “We can be quiet,” Ernest pulled away and stripped quickly down to his boxers before pressing himself against his chest. Jascha kissed him desperately as he unzipped the fly of the leather pants, relieving the last of the painful pressure and leaving only the swelling pleasure, made more intense by their extended period of chastity.

        Peeling himself out of the pants was much easier than getting into them. Their exorbitant price meant nothing now as he left them on the ground, pulled to the bed by Ernest. As Jascha reached under the band of Ernest’s underwear he found him already flushed and aching with arousal, his erection heavy and red against his stomach. He kissed his neck as he pulled off his boxers the rest of the way.

        “Jascha, do you want to try it?” Ernest asked, voice velvety with arousal as Jascha kissed him, working his cock lightly with one hand, fingers already slightly slick with precum.

        “Try what?” Jascha asked dumbly, mind unfocused by desire. He helped Ernest rid him of his own underwear.

        “You know,” Ernest said with a flirtatious smile.

        “Oh?” Jascha said, still uncertain. Then it clicked. “ _ Oh _ . That.”

        “Yeah,” Ernest laughed slightly, pulling him into another kiss. “I want to know what it feels like,” he whispered against his lips.

        Jascha felt a small coil of anxiety in his chest, but it was difficult to hold onto as he admired Ernest’s body. His health had completely returned to him and he’d recovered a thin layer of softness over his lean muscles. He ran a hand over the softest part of his stomach, over his navel. The muscles of his abs grew taught under his touch, and he leaned down to press a kiss to the head of his erection.

        “I can try,” Jascha finally said. He had to do  _something_.  His body was aching for relief and Ernest wasn’t even touching him. “You promise to tell me if it hurts?” He asked, using the last of his remaining cognitive function.

        “You won’t hurt me,” Ernest said with a smile. He reached over to the bedside drawer, handing him the lube. “Just go slow at first.”

        Jascha clumsily opened the lube, accidentally putting more of it on his fingers than he’d planned to. It came out of the container fast, and it was unbelievably slippery and hard to handle. He capped the bottle with his un-slimy hand, leaving it close by and steeling himself. He wouldn’t panic this time, he told himself.

        This time when he fingered Ernest there was no gasp of shock, just a sigh and a quiet moan. Jascha watched him carefully, worry quickly dissolving into interest and excitement as Ernest rocked his hips against his hand. Tentatively, he added another finger, earning him a barely-stifled moan. Jascha bent down and kissed Ernest’s thigh lovingly before he looked back up at his face.

        “Jascha,” Ernest panted in a heady whisper. “Please,” he sighed as he gripped the sheets desperately.

        Jascha turned his attention to himself, rubbing a generous amount of lube over his cock. He was still highly skeptical of whether or not this would hurt Ernest, but he reminded himself that it hadn’t hurt him. He lined himself up with Ernest, glancing to him once more for reassurance.

        “Are you sure?” Jascha asked gently, stroking a curl out of his eyes. Ernest wrapped his arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the mouth.

        “Yes,” Ernest smiled against his lips. “You won’t hurt me.”

        Cautiously, Jascha slid one hand back between Ernest’s legs, fingering him one more time before replacing his hand with the head of his cock. Jascha gasped at the feeling; it was completely different from anything he’d ever felt before. Ernest’s grip on him tightened as he took a sharp breath, but evidently not because it felt bad. On the contrary, Jascha could feel his fully erect dick pressing hard against his stomach.

        Gently, Jascha let himself start to rock his hips, working himself deeper with each thrust. The sensation was overwhelming; simultaneously too much and not enough. He kissed Ernest’s neck and chest, pumping his cock gently in time to his own movements. Under his touch, Ernest’s breath came in warm sighs.

        “You can go harder,” Ernest panted against his lips. Jascha pressed his face against his neck, gripping Ernest harder as his pace quickened. The pleasure was mind-numbingly intense, and even with the moderate increase in speed he could feel every inch of his skin grow tense and hot with need. As he thrust deeper, Ernest tangled his hands in his hair and moaned quietly. Jascha could feel in his hand the throb of Ernest’s cock, promising that he was close too.

        Jascha could only gasp against Ernest’s neck as the tension and heat spilled from him in high, radiating waves. Ernest moaned for him as his own orgasm burst against his hand and stomach, adding to the ecstasy. Jascha found his lips and kissed him blindly as they rode out the waves together, clinging tightly to one another. Even pulling out was a new kind of joy in itself. Lazily, Ernest reached for the tissue box and wiped both of them off quickly before pulling him back into his arms. Jascha held him gently and peppered his face with drunken kisses.

        “It feels pretty amazing, right?” Ernest whispered as he snuggled up against him.

        “Mhm,” Jascha nodded, mind completely glazed over by the endorphins. He sank his weight against Ernest, burying his face in his neck. There were no words to express the sheer and utter devotion he felt for him or the joy of his skin against his lips.

        “I love you so much,” Ernest said with gentle softness as he stroked his hair. “We should get up and shower, though,” he added lightly. Jascha shook his head weakly.

        “I’m never getting up again,” Jascha said sleepily, wrapping his arms more tightly around his waist. Ernest laughed quietly.

        “I don’t want to be sticky all night,” Ernest said, kissing his shoulder. “C’mon. We can shower together. I’ll give you, like, so many kisses.” Jascha sighed, disentangling himself enough to look at him.

        “How many?” Jascha asked as Ernest smiled at him lovingly.

        “I don’t know,” Ernest said dreamily, smoothing back his hair. “Is a hundred enough?”

        “No,” Jascha feigned seriousness, but broke into a grin as Ernest gave him a handful of quick kisses. “A hundred isn’t nearly enough.”

        “One hundred for the shower,” Ernest bartered. “And then you can have a hundred more once we’re back in bed.

        “Deal,” Jascha said as he helped Ernest up, both of them slightly unstable in their post-sex haze. He smiled happily as Ernest wrapped his arm around his waist as they walked to the bathroom.

        “I can’t wait to see you in the suit,” Ernest said longingly as he ran the water.

        Jascha imagined the joy of sex combined with the usual post-concert high and sighed dreamily. “It’ll be great,” he said as they got in.

They didn’t talk much at that point, as Ernest was too busy giving him his promised amount of kisses. Jascha counted 102.

 


	59. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry is safe. Victor has a purpose. Jascha checks in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thank for sticking with us for these last few chapters!
> 
> Trigger warning: Talking about trauma/death

         It was the first quiet day Henry could remember since he came home to the Frankenstein house. The gentle beams of sunlight that fell across his notes betrayed none of the cold and snow that choked the outside silent. Victor was moving around downstairs and Henry could hear Ernest, William, and Jascha playing in the front yard. Amazing. A normal house alive with normal activities and normal people. Well, not normal, but good. Good was always better.

        A sheet of snow slid off the roof and William’s joyous yell echoed around the woods and into Henry’s cracked window. He supposed if he listened carefully, he would be able to hear deer’s hoof-steps by the creek or the mink hunting field mice from their burrows.

        All in all, it was an excellent day to work through some of Whitman’s winter themed poems. There weren’t a ton in  Leaves of Grass , but there were enough to make it worth his while. Henry traced his fingertips over the aged ink. These words had been there for 150 years and they’d be there for 150 more.

        He heard more of William’s laughter and grabbed his coat. He checked his pockets as he bound down the stairs. Gloves? Check. Scarf? Check. Hat? Not check, but that just meant he probably left it downstairs. A quick glance at the hooks by the door proved him completely wrong.

        “Has anyone seen my hat?” He asked, to no one in particular. Theoretically, he could go out without one, but that would please exactly no one. Kassia and Victor appeared in a doorway.

        “Is it not in our room?” Victor asked.

        “Oh, I think Jascha was planning on switching it out for one he made,” Kassia explained as she disappeared into the living room.

        “Oh?” Henry and Victor asked in unison as they followed.

        Kassia held up a teal and yellow-striped monstrosity topped with an ostentatiously  floofy  pompom. Henry took it and ran his thumb cross the stitch work. It was...a valiant effort on all accounts and Henry was grateful for its warmth.

        “I think Jascha started stress knitting again,” Kassia explained.

        “This is clearly a revenge hat,” Henry laughed. “And I deserve every last stitch of it.” He smiled and pulled it over his ears.

        “Revenge for what?” she asked trying to hide her smile.

        “The pink one.”

        “I see. Well, you have fun,” Kassia said as she shooed Henry towards the door. “Don’t get too cold. Come inside for tea when you’re done.”

        With that, Henry was out the door and walking towards Ernest, Jascha, and William. He was trying to stealth, but the clashing, bright colors of everything he was wearing hindered his natural roguishness.

        “Uncle Henry!” William yelled as he popped up from behind a snow fort. “You look like cotton candy!”

        “I feel like cotton candy,” Henry wrapped his scarf tighter around his nose and mouth. It had snowed a lot more than he expected it to and it was far colder. He was infinitely glad that there wasn’t a sliver of his skin exposed to the air.

        “Hey, Ernest!” William said as he formed a snowball in his hand. “I think we should fight nerds against jocks!”

        “No fair! There’s three of you and only one of me!” Ernest laughed as he came out from behind his fort. “Actually no, I choose Henry. He’s a jock now.”

        “I am?” Henry asked when Ernest pulled him to safety.

        “Eh, you have at one point, theoretically played a sport,” Ernest shrugged and handed Henry a snowball.

        “I didn’t think figure skating counted.”

        “Art sport. Close enough.” Ernest smiled as he prepared to make a break for it over the fort. Henry peeked around the edge but William and Jascha were nowhere to be seen. Silence grew and twisted through the snow. There should have been something; the sounds of their breathing or their boots crunching against the ground.

        “I think this is a trap,” Henry whispered as he fell to Ernest’s side.

        “We have come to take back one of our own!” William shouted as he rained snowballs down on Ernest and Henry’s backs.

        “How did you...?” Ernest sputtered before he fell straight into their fort, crushing it.

        “Stealth,” William said as he swirled his hands in front of his face. “We move like the wind. We’re here for the Henry. Nerd at heart.”

        He grabbed Henry’s hand and they raced back to the unbroken fort. He ducked behind it and Jascha towered over him like a guard. “How on earth can you think  Henry  is a jock? Henry! I bet he’s wearing a sweater underneath his coat. A literary sweater.”

Ernest didn’t answer because William was too busy filling his hat with snow and dumping it on his head. Jascha and Henry came out from their hiding and Jascha pointed for him to stand across the yard.

        “William, come,” Jascha ordered with his arms outstretched. “Observe.” William took his cue well and raced as fast as his legs could take him into Jascha’s arms and over his head. The elegance and grace of a trained ballerina, William was thrown and caught and placed back on the ground. “Henry,” Jascha commanded, “Do the same.”

        “Excuse me?” Henry yelled, but William was already coming at him. He made a valiant effort to lift him even the least little bit, but it resulted in both of them being thrown into a snowdrift. There was a lot of snow in Henry’s jacket now and he could feel William start to shiver next to him.

        “See, not a jock, he can’t even do ballet throws,” Jascha giggled into his arm.

        “To be fair, I can’t do that either.” Ernest was doubled over into the snow. The back door of the house was opened very forcefully and two adults and Victor came running onto the porch.

        “Jascha, your form was terrible. Do it again,” Lukas said as Victor’s face broke with the fear of god.

        “Yay!” William giggled and launched himself back at Jascha. Henry had absolutely no idea where he got all that energy from. Right now, all he wanted to do was curl up in his bed with Victor and snuggle. As far as Henry could tell, the throw was flawless and Jascha was a god among men. Lukas seemed less convinced.

        “Try again.”

        “Dad,” Jascha tried to argue as Kassia rested a soft hand on her husband’ s forearm.

        “Was my form okay?” Henry asked, still lying in the snow pile.

        “You did fantastic,” Lukas said as he lowered himself to the yard. “William, come.”

        William bounced on his heels as he ran at Lukas. Clearly, the kid never ran out of energy, ever, because he threw himself at the older man with just as much gusto as he had Jascha. He could not contain his laughter as he flew threw the air.

        “That was amazing,” William gasped. “I feel like a god. I cannot die. I am immortal.”

        “There, there,” Lukas pat his slightly damp head. “You can experience the visceral thrill of ballet from inside the house with a cup of tea.”

        All the kids rushed inside and Ernest and Jascha were quick to take off their wet outside clothes, but Henry was somewhat less eager. It was very easy for him to remember that this was the most physical activity he had done in days. Weeks, probably. His torso hurt a little bit and his neck hurt a lot a bit and William really didn’t need to be reminded of that reality again, now did he?  The cold wool stuck to his skin and scratched. He eventually allowed himself to be rid of his hat and gloves, but the scarf stayed on. He retreated to his room without taking a warm drink.

        Henry was alone for exactly 5.6 seconds before there was a small kicking at his door.

        “Henry,” William called. “I don’t have hands.”

        He jumped out of the chair and opened the door to find a very snuggly William with two mugs of tea in his hand. The smell of peach and chamomile mixed in the air. William sat on the edge of the bed and handed the peach tea to Henry. “Kassia says it’s not good for me to have caffeine. Jascha confirmed that it was a chemical and thus would be responsible for nuclear fallout.”

        “You’re a natural catastrophe when you don’t sleep.” Henry nudged him playfully and accepted the mug. He still didn’t take off the scarf. Not while William was around.

        “You look really uncomfortable. You look itchy,” William snuggled closer and tugged on the edge of the scarf. It fell away easily. “Oh my god!”

        “I know it’s bad, bud,’ Henry said as he burrowed his head underneath a few pillows. He should have tried to convince Victor to let him wear the makeup again. At least he wouldn’t terrorize small children. And he looked utterly ridiculous. He could hear William giggling above him as he acted like an ostrich.

        “But you’re okay now, right?” He asked. “I heard Lukas break, like, all of his bones and no one else wants to hurt you.”

        “No one else wants to hurt me,” Henry confirmed, still confined to his burrow.

        “For real this time?”

        “For real this time.” Henry sighed as William picked a pillow off his face. He smiled and booped Henry’s nose and Henry booped him back.

        “I’m going to read you a poem,” William announced. “To make you feel better and it’s going to be a poem about cats so I need to find the cat.”

        “Where’s the cat?” Henry asked as he propped himself up on his elbows.

        “Probably in Ernest’s shirt. I’ll go get her.” And William was gone in the blink of an eye.

        That had gone better than Henry had expected. William’s horror seemed to be primarily limited to the memory of Lawrence and not the actual bruises left on his skin. Nevertheless, he decided to put a turtleneck sweater just in case. Maybe William was afraid of his voice and that was why he didn’t want him to read. The tea was supposed to help though, maybe that would help him sound less like a dying cat.

        Bad choice of words, he thought as William came barreling back in with Maise twisting in his arms.

        “I found the cat,” William said as he plopped her on Henry’s lap. She curled up into an indignant little ball as Henry pet the little part in between her ears.

        William sat on the edge of his bed and put on his best I-am-acting voice as he began to read the poem. “‘The Naming of Cats’ by T.S. Elliot,” William said:

                _“_ _ The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter, _

_                 It isn't just one of your holiday games; _

_                 You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter _

_                 When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES. _

_                 First of all, there's the name that the family use daily, _

_                 Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James, _

_                 Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey-- _

_                 All of them sensible everyday names. _

_                 There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter, _

_                 Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames: _

_                 Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter-- _

_                 But all of them sensible everyday names. _

_                 But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular, _

_                 A name that's peculiar, and more dignified, _

_                 Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular, _

_                 Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride? _

_                 Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum, _

_                 Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat, _

_                 Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum- _

_                 Names that never belong to more than one cat. _

_                 But above and beyond there's still one name left over, _

_                 And that is the name that you never will guess; _

_                 The name that no human research can discover-- _

_                 But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess. _

_                 When you notice a cat in profound meditation, _

_                 The reason, I tell you, is always the same: _

_                 His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation _

_                 Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name: _

_                 His ineffable effable _

_                 Effanineffable _

_                 Deep and inscrutable singular Name.” _

 

        Henry and William could not keep it together until the end of the poem. Henry theorized that it was the name Bombalurina that sent them over the edge and then it was just all down hill from there. Maisie stared in rapt contemplation just over William’s shoulder.

        “What do you think her ineffable name is?” Henry asked.

        “I am not allowed to know. I am just a human,” William said seriously.  “I’m glad Ernest decided not to name her Jellylorum.”

        “Yeah. That would be tragic,” Henry agreed. Maisie purred.

        “Can you read me a poem?” William asked. So he wasn’t afraid of his voice, that was good. Anything was better than William’s fear. What poem was good enough for William? Whitman, obviously, but which one. All the happy ones he knew were homoerotic. He took one look at William beaming at his ceiling with the cat’s paw on his cheek and decided it had to be a happy one. Only a happy one for William.  

        “When I Heard at the Close of Day by Walt Whitman,” Henry started:

        _“When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv’d with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that follow’d,_

_                 And else when I carous’d, or when my plans were accomplish’d, still I was not happy, _

_                 But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refresh’d, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn, _

_                 When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light, _

_                 When I wander’d alone over the beach, and undressing bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise, _

_                 And when I thought how my dear friend my lover was on his way coming, O then I was happy, _

_                 O then each breath tasted sweeter, and all that day my food nourish’d me more, and the beautiful day pass’d well, _

_                 And the next came with equal joy, and with the next at evening came my friend, _

_                 And that night while all was still I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores, _

_                 I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me whispering to congratulate me, _

_                 For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night, _

_                 In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me, _

_                 And his arm lay lightly around my breast – and that night I was happy.” _

 

        “Are you happy with us, Uncle Henry?” William asked, after he soaked in the last of the melody and silence.

        “I am happier than anyone else on the entire planet,” Henry said as he hugged him. “There is nowhere else I’d rather be.”

        “Good, because I’m really happy I know you.” William closed his eyes and after a few minutes of silence, Henry was pretty sure he was asleep.

        “I love you so much, bud,” he whispered as he tried to will himself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

       “Okay, so,” Victor tried for an easy smile, “how, uh...how do you want to,” he glanced to each person at the table in turn, “...do this.”

        Dr. Simonis didn’t break his gaze. “We want to know everything.” He said, at once intense and entirely at ease.

        “Cool, cool,” Victor sweated, “ though I’m not entirely sure what that, you know, entails?” With supreme effort he looked away from Dr. Simonis to settle on the much less physically intimidating Ms. Simonis. Oh, but who was he kidding. She was equally terrifying, staring at him with visible stress cloaked over every feature. He cleared his throat. “Do you guys want to know about, like, the process? Surgery?” He chose his words carefully. “...Acquisition?”

        “Everything.” Dr. Simonis repeated gravely.

        “Let’s start,” his dad cut in hastily, “with...acquisition?” He shot Victor a look, which he could read as  proceed with caution.  Victor would rather not proceed at all. He hadn’t even said anything and Ms. Simonis was already tearing up.

        “Great.” Victor said. “So...um. Yeah. I got Jascha from the morgue. Obviously. And then--”

        “Why him?” Ms. Simonis spoke suddenly, leaning forward in her seat.

        “Why…” Victor said slowly. Fabulous. Of course she would start with the hard questions. He wanted to push the question off and refocus on the facts of the matter, process and prognosis and all. But, Victor noted with a pang of guilt, if there was anyone to whom he owed honest answers, it would be Jascha’s parents.

        “Uh. He was,” it took effort to find ways of speaking which wouldn’t sound overly clinical, “newly deceased, which was important. He was also in a...fair condition. All things considered. He was in the morgue I spent most of my time at, which consequently meant that I could...” Victor eyed his father nervously, “that I knew how to...great Jascha out.”

        His dad didn’t look surprised but remained vaguely exhausted. “So you did steal him then.” He said flatly.

        “Yeah.” Victor said. “I- I figured out how to. Get around locks and security monitors and such.”

        “You left his legs.” Dr. Simonis said as, beside him, his wife tightened her grip on his upper arm.

        “Lukas,” she said desperately, face already draining of color.

        Dr. Simonis stroked her arm comfortingly but did not look away from Victor. Which was terrifying. He still wasn’t showing a single goddamn emotion even while his wife literally sobbed on his arm. Victor scooched his chair closer to his dad, thankful when the other didn’t move away.

        Victor cleared his throat and decided his best course of action would be to stare at the table. “I did. They were...unsalvageable.”

        “Why were you there?” Ms. Simonis asked between shaky breaths.

        “There?” Victor faked an air of confusion.

        “At the school, when we found out.” Ms. Simonis specified. “Why?”

        Victor grimaced and pressed his hands between his legs to keep from picking at them out of nervousness.

Honesty. He needed to be honest. Honest but gentle but also clinical but also comprehensible but also- “I wanted to…” he faltered and forced himself to glance up to Ms. Simonis’ teary disposition, “it was just...I was proud?”

        “Proud?” Dr. Simonis asked. Beside him, his dad closed his eyes.

        “Proud.” Victor swallowed hard. “My plan was finally becoming reality. I was proud of myself.” He hesitated. “I feel I should, uh, emphasize that at that point I was kinda way off the deep end.”

        Victor had no idea how much his dad had filled them in on his laundry list of incidents and breakdowns but from the glance his dad exchanged with Dr. Simonis, it was enough to fill in the unsaid spaces. He was glad for that. He didn’t really fancy the idea of going further in depth, explaining depths of his madness, the pure ecstasy of watching Ms. Simonis break down and knowing that it meant soon he’d rise.

        God, he’d been so far off his rocker, he might as well have been flying.

        Victor hunched over the table and studied the wood pattern. “I got him back to the lab and immediately set about putting his body into a state of homeostasis. I didn’t have all the equipment I needed to keep him stable and I knew I was running against the clock the second I took him ‘off ice’ so I removed a great portion of his internal organs right there. That was the night I came home covered in blood.” He heard Ms. Simonis heave a gasp, which became the beginning of a fresh sob. He squirmed against the white hot stab of guilt in his gut.

        “How did you change him?” Dr. Simonis asked. There was a trace of anger or maybe disgust in his voice now, which, quite unfortunately, made Victor think back to the sight of Lawrence lying in a pool of his own viscera.

        “Change?” He asked. “I...you mean like-”

        “Change.” Dr. Simonis repeated unhelpfully.

        “Right.” Victor nodded. “He’s, uh...I pretty much replaced everything. Internally, at least. Heart, lungs, liver, all that jazz. Legs too. For...obvious reasons. Hands…” He shook his head. No, no, he’d fixed that. “Hands are the same.” he corrected himself.

        “I’m assuming that these alterations were all necessary?” His dad asked hopefully.

        “Oh, ah, no. Not exactly. The lungs, heart, and legs, yes. They were all damaged beyond my ability to repair.” Easily, he corrected himself internally. Ability to repair easily. “So those were needed changes. The other bits were-”

        “For your pride?” Dr. Simonis suggested coldly.

        Victor remained silent.

        “Where did you get the parts?” Dr. Simonis asked. Ms. Simonis had stopped crying now and Victor couldn’t decide whether he wanted her to start or not again. Was it better to hear her sob or know that she was hanging on his every word?

        Victor sighed. “I hand selected them. I wanted to build...make Jascha the best version of a human being so I picked the most ideal components available to me. I’ve got a list of the donors and state of the organs if you’d like to…”

        “Yes.” Dr. Simonis and his dad said at the exact moment Ms. Simonis said “No.”

        The adults seemed to hold a silent council while Victor desperately prepared himself to the follow up.

        “It’s a written list?” His dad finally asked.

        Victor shrugged. “It could be.”

        “You’ll give me a copy later.”

        Victor scrapped the tone of his father’s voice for signs of parental disapproval but, whether because there was none to be found or because he was too panicky to properly read, he couldn’t detect any.

        “Yeah.” He agreed. “I can do that.”

        “So how did you…” his dad’s tone was almost interested if in an off kilter way, as though he were watching a special on serial killers. Fascinated but also sickened. “You know.”

        “Electricity. Galvanism, specifically.” Victor smiled without humor. “Same principle as defibrillators. I prepped the body with artificially pumped blood and stabilized the organs then waited for a lightning storm.”

        “A lightning storm?” His dad asked.

        “Yeah.” Victor closed his eyes and recalled the feeling of frigid water on his skin. The sight of Jascha prone across the table, completely lifeless. The feeling of Henry’s hands as he peeled layer after layer of wet clothing away. “Yeah. I needed a lot of kinetic energy to restart the heart and I couldn’t get it within my means at the lab. So I used nature to fill in the gaps where human science failed.” He looked to Ms. Simonis, who regarded him blankly. “Jascha woke up shortly after. I wasn’t there. Henry was the one who found him.”

        “And this was before he went to live with Ernest?” Dr. Simonis asked.

        “Yeah, a peer of mine sent him to live with her boyfriend at the frat so…” Victor tipped his head to one side, “he wasn’t with me long.”

        Which was definitely for the best. Victor shuddered to think what may have become of Jascha if he’d been allowed to keep him. What may have become of Victor. Regardless of what did.

        After a few long moments had passed without further questions, Victor forced himself to sit straighter. “Dad, I don’t know how much more you need for your paperwork--”

        “What were you trying to do?” Ms. Simonis asked suddenly.

        Victor frowned at her, lost as to what the question was really asking. There were so many things he was trying to accomplish and so little that he actually did.

        Ms. Simonis bit her lip and peered into his soul with brilliant green eyes, sharpened both with kindness and despair. “Why tamper with death?” She said the last word like she couldn’t quite believe it had emerged from her mouth.

        Victor’s throat ran dry. “I…”

        He didn’t have an answer. Or maybe he had too many. Or maybe he’d never thought about it to begin with. There had to be something, though, some reason he’d drowned himself in this imitation madness, something which drove him before it became a quest for power, an obsession, defiance of an uncaring god. Perhaps it had been a means by which to help others or a way to push himself forward in the field. He’d developed the idea from a stray thought to a plan in Ingolstadt so there had to be some element of hopelessness present within it as well. But then again, none of that rang quite true.

        “I missed my mom.” Victor said softly. “I was scared that I’d lose someone else.”

        His dad released a shaky breath while Dr. and Ms. Simonis looked to each other. She continued to hold tight to his upper arm.

        “So it had nothing to do with Jascha?” Ms. Simonis asked in a small voice.

        “No.” Victor said, equally subdued. He desperately wanted to start crying but held himself short. “I’m sorry.”

        Ms. Simonis nodded without meeting his eye. She closed her own for a moment then looked up. When she reached across the table, it was all Victor could do to keep from bolting. Despite his flinch, however, she kept her hand extended until he caught on and reluctantly placed his own quivering hand in her grasp. He braced.

        But she just rubbed her thumb over his knuckles. “Thank you.” She said.

        Victor blinked at her dumbly. “What?” He finally rasped.

        “You brought my son back.” Ms. Simonis said simply. “I...losing Jascha was like a nightmare I could never wake up from, seeing him die--” She took a sharp breath. There were fresh tears on her cheeks now, accompanied by a sheen in her eyes. “I could never bear to live without him. And now,” she gave a strangled little laugh, “now I don’t have to. Now he gets to live and go on and grow old and that, that was your doing.”

        Victor felt like he was having a fucking stroke. He looked to Dr. Simonis who, although still impassive, seemed a little gentler as he sat close to his wife. His dad appeared nearly as mystified as Victor but, regardless, looked softly upon Ms. Simonis.

        The hand holding his own tightened as Ms. Simonis smiled through her tears. Smiled at  him . He was definitely knew he was hallucinating now. But her expression was open and her grasp was gentle and nothing in it made his skin itch so he held still and held his breath for good measure.

        Eventually Ms. Simonis released his hand. Bending forward, she swiped a thumb beneath his eye causing Victor to pull away in shock.

        “You’re crying too.” Ms. Simonis explained.

        Victor searched her face, a million atrocities ready on his tongue. She obviously didn’t understand and therefore he needed to make her, to convince her that he was the monster of this story and didn’t deserve a single shred of sympathy or softness.

        The words stuck in his throat.

        Dr. Simonis and his dad spoke for a while longer, passing around legal jargon and a few physical documents. Ms. Simonis didn’t say much. Her head was laid against her husband’s shoulder, a tiredness evident in the slouch and sway of her eyes.

        Victor didn’t remember much of the words said. He didn’t remember much of anything except that he may have answered a few more questions and that Ms. Simonis held his hands for a few more minutes in between all the talking. She was unusually warm.

        Eventually, Dr. and Ms. Simonis returned to their room, leaving only his dad and Victor at the table. Victor startled back to awareness when his dad touched his arm.

        “Doing okay?” He asked soothingly.

        “Yeah.” Victor said.

        His dad’s brows knit. “You sure?”

        “Probably.”

        A beat. “I miss her too.”

        Victor’s heart twisted painfully tight in his chest, in a way it hadn’t seemed to in years. “Yeah.” He choked out.

        His father hugged him for as long as Victor held still so that when he did pull back, it was reluctantly. “Well. I’m going to go put the finishing touches on these documents. You’re welcome to join me in my office for a bit, if you’d like to.”

        Victor shook his head. “I’m going to see if I can find Henry. If he’s not still outside.”

        “Sure.” His dad said easily. Like they hadn’t just had one of the most terrible, agonizing, and confusing conversations of Victor’s life. “I wanted to ask.” His dad continued. “Were you planning to continue with your, uh...research?” He was trying not to look nervous but it was a poor act.

        “No.” Victor said firmly. The rewards of his research had been extraordinary and fruitful beyond measure. They’d also almost destroyed everyone he’d ever cared about. “Never.”

        “Good.” His dad sighed in relief. “And are you still planning to be a doctor?”

        Victor shrugged. “I think. I still want to…” he shot his father a nervous glance. “Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

        “Quite the opposite, actually.” His dad said. “You were just talking about stabilizing organs with limited equipment available to you, performing incredibly efficient organ transplants. Did you mention advanced healing injections at some point?”

        Did he? Victor had no clue. “Yeah.” He said.

        His dad shook his head in pale amazement. “That’s what you need to be focusing on, Victor. All of it is just so incredible.” He smiled at Victor’s gawking. “You could help a lot of people with technology like that. If you chose to develop it, of course.”

        Victor felt the brilliance of his father’s smile spread to his own face as coursing excitement ran through him. He could do that. Oh, he could absolutely do that. He still had the lab at school, he still had a mostly respectable place in the medical department. Research, all his own and blissfully without secrecy or guilt.

He could  help  people.

        Victor grinned. “I need to email my advisor.”

        His dad smirked in amusement. “Do you even know who your advisor is?”

        “Uh, no. I need to google my advisor then email her.” Victor was practically bouncing in place. “I still have the funding and I could present portions of my work from this semester to the department to re-secure it for the next. I could probably work with sheeps’ organs or live frogs and, oh, maybe I could get an assistant! I wonder if Agatha--”

        “Didn’t you want to check on Henry?” His dad asked.

        “Oh, oh, yeah!” Victor backed up, nearly running into the doorway in his haste. “Thanks, Dad! Love you!”

        He raced up the stairs and threw open the door to his room. He started to say Henry’s name but stopped short as he noticed William and Henry curled up together in the bed. He smiled at the sight.

        He walked into the room and pulled the copy of Walt Whitman out of Henry’s limp hand before carefully drawing the covers over the softly snoring duo. He kissed Henry’s forehead and brushed back William’s hair.

        “Sweet dreams, you two.” Victor whispered.

        He gently closed the door and ran off in search of a computer.

 

* * *

  

        After the snowball fight, Jascha wanted to practice violin. That was his plan as of the moment he woke up: Spend at least four hours playing the violin. Realistically, he’d probably only make it to three given the still-healing fragility of his hands. But first, tea. His father had invited all of them in from outside for tea, and after having Ernest betray him to team up with Henry and attack him for snow for a couple hours, he was freezing.

        Jascha was never the most perceptive kid, but he could read Ernest, and Ernest  was  a perceptive kid and he looked uncomfortable. Jascha glanced to his father, who was preparing the tea. He seemed...himself. It was impossible to tell. Alphonse was gathering up paperwork, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. He did look a bit tired, which was odd since Victor had been behaving lately and was also nowhere to be found. As was his mother. Jascha settled beside Ernest at the dining room table, antsy because Ernest was antsy.

        “Dad, what’s wrong?” Jascha asked as his father handed them both a mug of earl gray tea.

        “Nothing is wrong,” his dad said easily. Jascha thought it over. His father was never the evasive type, and he certainly didn’t seem to be avoiding him.

        “Okay,” Jascha said, deciding that if his father hadn’t lied to him before he probably wouldn’t start now.

        “You seem stressed,” Ernest said, shocking both of them. Jascha looked at his father again, and couldn’t catch any emotion besides the small look of surprise in his gaze.

        “Kassia and I had a challenging conversation with Victor and Alphonse,” his father said after a moment. Now he did look a little worn out.

        “Is Mom okay?” Jascha asked, suddenly anxious now that he couldn’t see her in the room with them.

        “Yes,” his father said, giving him a ghost of a smile. “She went upstairs to rest. She should be back soon to practice.”

        “What were you talking to Alphonse about?” Jascha asked, already fairly sure of the answer. It had to be him. The issue of his...undeath.

        “We needed to discuss specifics of what happened so that he can come up with legal paperwork explaining that you are alive. He is also working on revoking your death certificate and coming up with an explanation that will not incriminate Victor,” his father said with the same tone he’d use to explain chord progression to freshmen.

        “Will I be able to play in public again?” Jascha asked miserably. He relaxed slightly as Ernest put a hand on his knee.

        “Yes,” his father said without hesitation. “It will bring public attention to your situation, and likely result in some strange headlines, but you are allowed to perform.”

        “How soon can he play?” Ernest asked. “We’ve, like, had to keep a kinda low profile for a while now.”

        “Your mother and I are very close to the conductor at CSO,” his father said, locking eyes with him. The conductor had helped them find him an instructor when he was a kid, since he needed to learn by ear. “CSO has a master class at the start of January, and it would not be difficult to work you in.”

        “Who’s leading the master class?” Jascha asked, desperate for a break in the conversation about him technically being dead.

        “One of your mother’s friends from conservatory,” his father said easily. “Vera Karlsen.”

        Jascha nodded. “When is the concert?”

        “It’s on the seventh,” his father said. Jascha cringed. Less than two weeks from now.

        “My hands are still healing,” Jascha said nervously.

        “Then don’t practice for four hours everyday,” his father said with a slight smile, as if that were a possibility. “You are already better equipped for the class than most.”

        “I can’t-” Jascha had never in his life gone into a concert without putting at least a hundred hours into a piece.

        “Jascha, do you remember what your therapist used to say about concerts?” His father cut him off. This was his old trick. Remind him of something the doctor/therapist/teacher said to make his desire for perfection battle his complete need to follow instructions.

        “Practicing isn’t useful if I blow out my wrists,” Jascha sighed.

        “The other one, too,” his father instructed.

        “Practice makes competent, joy makes perfect?” Jascha was just running down the list of things people said to him during his many perfection-induced panic attacks.

        “Try again,” his father said gently. Jascha groaned.

        “Get lots of sleep, eat, drink plenty of water, and relax the week before a performance?” Jascha finally said. It was his least favorite of all the lines because the demands were nearly unattainable.

        “Very good,” his father smiled. Ernest patted his knee discretely under the table.

        “I can help you with some physical therapy stuff for your hands,” Ernest offered.

        “Okay,” Jascha said, relaxing a little now that he found the right answer. His father gave him another smile, and then looked past him towards the door.

        “Kassi, did you rest well?” His father asked. Jascha didn’t need to turn to look at his mom because within seconds he felt her wrap her arms around his shoulders, kissing him on the cheek. He patted her arm and let her hug him for several seconds before sitting beside him.

        “I’m okay,” his mother said, very clearly not okay. She sounded tired, and her eyes were red from crying. Nonetheless, she smiled at him. “How are you?”

        “Dad says I can perform in the CSO master class,” Jascha said, letting her hold his hand. He leaned against her shoulder.

        “I’ll give them a confirmation call, then,” she said gently. “Would you like to go practice?” She asked. Jascha nodded.

        “One more question, before you two go,” his father said. Jascha looked up at him from his mother’s shoulder.

        “Mhm?” Jascha hummed, suddenly nervous again. He felt his mother tense as well.

        “Do you want us to enroll you back at Juilliard?” His father asked, voice soothing and even. The tone he used when he thought someone might bolt.

        “He can’t go back to New York,” his mother said quickly, wrapping her arms around him protectively.

        “He needs to graduate,” his father said calmly. “If he wants to go back, he can go back.”

        “Jascha?” His mother asked, very clearly trying to hide her fear.

        “I…” Jascha sat up and looked at Ernest, who gave him a smile. “Maybe? When would I have to go?”

        “You could re-enroll for the spring semester,” his father said. “Or we can wait until next year. It’s up to you.”

        “How many credits do I still need?” Jascha asked. Maybe he could finish in one semester. It would be easy enough to get the performance requirements.

        “You just need to finish the semester you left during,” his father said reassuringly, as if ‘left’ meant something normal and not his death. Jascha was very seriously regretting his decision to start late his first year. He would have graduated by now if he hadn’t and possibly wouldn’t have died at all.

        “Just the semester?” Jascha asked.

        “You just need to finish the performance requirements and do your departmental seminar,” his father said evenly. “Then you can have your violin diploma and never do school again,” he smiled.

        “No more school,” Jascha said wistfully. Juilliard was really more of a career move than an educational one. Get the degree, stand out, and then run away to exclusively do performance for the rest of his life. None of this PhD or higher level degree teaching stuff that his parents did. He’d be a bad teacher, if William was any evidence.

        “It’ll be fine,” Ernest said warmly. “It’ll be fun to come visit you in New York.”

        “New York is not fun,” Jascha said seriously.

        “New York is kinda fun,” Ernest smiled.

        “It’s not fun,” his mother agreed. Jascha felt her grip on him tighten. “You can go finish school if you’d like, but I don’t want you to drive anywhere.”

        “I wouldn’t want to,” Jascha said quietly.

        “Good,” she said, relaxing slightly. “Now, would you like to go practice? We can talk about which piece you’ll perform at the class.”

        “Yes,” Jascha said brightly, easily distracted from his fears by the promise of time with Kroshka and his mother. Juilliard could wait for another month or so; at the very least until his father got in contact with them and the legal forms were completed.

        For now, it was violin time.

 


	60. Intimacy and Embarrassment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry and Victor have sex. Jascha hears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two chapters to go! As always, we live for kudos and comments!

           Days passed; glorious days full of thesis work, music, and joy. Each day that stretched on without tragedy was another thread that Henry could slowly knit himself together with. Not every day was normal and not every day was good, but they were days marching ever further from his shade of a former life. For Henry, that was enough. 

           Today, in any case, Henry was sewing. Now, he wasn’t any good at sewing, but he had a sneaking suspicion it would make Victor very happy. The shirt was actually one of Victor’s, so it was noticeably too small on Henry and that was exactly what he was going for. He could have made his life easier and just gone out and bought a v-neck to save his fingers the minor stab wounds, but this was more fun, when he thought of it. And the shirt smelled like Victor, which was a plus. 

           Henry was worried the bright red of the fabric would make his skin look more flushed than it already was, but he found it didn’t lessen any of the visual appeal. After he pulled the tailored shirt over his head, Henry gave himself a spin in the mirror. 

           Not half bad, if he did say so himself. Perhaps Victor was secretly onto something. Henry didn’t exactly look like  _ Henry.  _ The man staring back at him with a satisfied smirk was far too cool and put together. And good at sewing. Henry unrumpled the shirt a little bit to find that his new neckline was, indeed, even. A miracle. Truly a dream come true. 

           Now all that was left was the icing on the cake. Henry pulled on the leather jacket and posed. Yeah, yeah, okay. Henry could definitely see why Victor was into this as a concept. His ass and crotch looked amazing in these pants. Now, not quite as amazing as Victor in that ruffled top, but pretty good. Roleplay; that could be fun someday, but not today. Today, it was Henry’s turn to surprise Victor. 

           With his outfit all in order and his hair perfectly mussed to heighten his sex appeal, Henry was faced with the challenge of how to pose seductivly on the bed. He didn’t really have a clue because he had never posed seductively before. He hadn’t really done anything seductively before. Cableknit sweaters did not often scream ‘come fuck me across this table.’ Not that Henry wanted Victor to fuck him across a table. He was still a little bit too delicate for that. 

           Henry could hear Victor laughing downstairs with William and Ernest. Great, so he had at least a little bit of time. Without so much as a thought in his head, he logged on to Victor’s desktop and searched for Abrocrombie and Fitch ads to imitate. 

           Henry wasn’t exactly a musclebound greek god, but he could analyse some common themes across the adverts, namely, an arm raised above the head, an arm directed towards the abs or crotch, and a vaguely pissed off smolder. Henry couldn’t smolder very well and his squishy belly wasn’t exactly something he needed to draw attention to. 

           He tried a couple of the poses out. The about-to-be-murdered-Adonis was not a look that was working for him. Neither was the I’m-a-sexy-male-Medusa. Henry, however, was fond of the dear-god-I’m-a-turned-on-and-dying starfish look he had going on right now. Victor was still laughing downstairs. A small smile crept its way onto Henry’s face despite the growing pressure in his pants. Victor, Victor, Victor. Happy and smiley Victor. The best kind of Victor and the Victor that was growing increasingly more common. 

           Victor. The thought sat deep and warm in Henry’s sex addled mind as he leaned his head off the bed and let his hair fall away from his eyes. Amazingly, his glasses didn’t fall off. He had about a 50/50 success rate. He moved his hands dreamily in front of his face. Victor’s eyes and Victor’s tongue and Victor’s skin and Victor’s hugs. He dreamily sang along in his head until the door opened. 

           “Oh my dearest,” Victor said before he stopped dead in his tracks. “What  _ are  _ you doing?”

           “Uhh,” Henry stumbled for words. “Posing sexily?” He spread his legs a little bit to make his point more clear. “Is it working?”

           Victor slowly settled himself between his legs and folded his arms on top of his stomach. He nestled into his forearms and cocked his head. “Yeah, but why?” He kissed the exposed strip of Henry’s belly. “Is that my shirt, darling?”

           “I may have altered it a little bit,” Henry blushed. “Did you notice?”

           “I did,” Victor laughed and kissed his navel. “You would never in a million years buy a shirt that tight. I do, however, remember these pants and that jacket.” He teasingly ran a finger down Hamlet’s fly before gently cupping his erection against his palm. He glanced to the side and very clearly saw the most recent ad pulled up on the computer screen. “You did research?” Victor pulled Henry entirely onto the bed and pressed a flurry of kisses to his stomach. Henry curled around him in a hug and the room filled with both of their laughter. “You’re a nerd.” Victor moved his hands up Henry’s ribs underneath the shirt before kissing his lips. 

           Victor’s kisses tasted like honey, cinnamon, and toast. Henry closed his eyes and twined his arms around Victor’s waist, settling comfortably in his hips. They were both upright for barely a moment before Victor gently pushed Henry to the bed. His glasses jostled down his nose and Victor quickly folded them and placed them on the nightstand. He made quick work of Henry’s jacket and shirt, leaving his chest vulnerable to Victor’s lips and tongue. Henry moaned as he kissed a line from his sternum down to his waist band. 

           “Can I take your pants off?” Victor asked. Henry nodded enthusiastically as he smiled and pressed another kiss to his navel. “Can I blow you?”

           “Yes please,” Henry whimpered and Victor kissed his lips before removing his underwear as well. 

           It wasn’t often that Henry was forced to confront how new he was to this whole sex thing. Things with Victor just felt profoundly right and they did now as Victor kissed the inside of his thighs and the top of his knees. His brows were knit in rapt concentration and his hair was shiny and soft. 

           “Wait, wait, wait,” Henry said as Victor’s head snapped up in confusion. “You have too many clothes,” he announced and settled his fingers on the hem of Victor’s shirt. “I want to see you. Can I take them off?”

           Victor moaned his consent and Henry swiftly disrobed him leaving the sight of Victor, naked and aroused, in front of him. He splayed his hand over Victor’s chest and let the other drag over his stomach. His skin was soft and Henry could feel him breathing under his touch. Henry kissed the tender spot of Victor’s neck and was certain it would leave a mark, but he found he didn’t really care when Victor groaned into his embrace. 

           “You’re beautiful,” Henry moaned as Victor continued his ministrations. Henry had to bite the back of his hand to keep from making too much noise, but Victor’s light kisses up and down the length of his cock were driving him halfway to insanity. “And you’re such a tease.” Henry’s voice pitched high as Victor gave the tiniest kitten lick right under the head of his cock. He caught Henry’s debauched eyes and smiled before he began to blow him in earnest.

           Henry threw his head back as a low moan was drawn from his throat. Victor’s mouth as warm and soft and felt so nice. Henry’s poet’s heart, which once imagined coming up with the best poetry for this occasion was wiped completely blank as Victor licked a bead of precum from the head of his cock. 

           “Victor,  _ oh Victor _ ,” Henry breathed as he allowed his fingers to tangle in his lover’s hair. It was soft and shiny and Victor hummed around his cock, sending jolts of electricity up Henry’s spine. Henry could have easily gotten lost in the feel of his lover’s lips around his penis or the way his hands were splayed across his soft stomach, but he pulled himself up and pressed a kiss to the top of Victor’s head. Henry gently pulled Victor towards him and kissed his mouth, hard and deep and full of his boundless love. He couldn’t find the right place to put his hands, so he held Victor’s cheek with one and caressed his back with the other. 

           “Henry, are you--” Victor stated to say, but he was cut off with another kiss. Henry could keep kissing him forever.

           “I love you,” Henry whispered. “I love your body and I love your kisses and I love you more than anything.” He kissed Victor’s clavicle and up his neck, back to his lips. 

           “I love you too.” Victor maneuvered them so their chests were flush and their erections rubbed together as they kissed. Victor ran his fingers through Henry’s hair and down his spine and over his ribs. 

           Henry reluctantly broke the kiss and pressed their foreheads together as he caressed the fine curve of his cheek. They were so close they could feel each other breathing in sync.

           “Victor,” Henry asked, his voice high and filled with need. “Will you make love to me?”

 

* * *

 

           In his head, Victor answered Henry’s plea with a sauve kind of smile and a smooth ‘of course, darling.’ In reality, however, Victor’s face split into a dopey smile while his voice pitched up to near oblivion. “Oh god,  _ please. _ ” He said, leaping forward to draw Henry into another consumptive kiss.

           He tasted perfectly and blissfully sweet, like the white wine he’d had with dinner, and Victor was near to drunk just with the hint of it. As he basked in the feeling of Henry’s soft lips and pulsing radiance, he slowly swept his hands down, tracing the broad shoulders, the graceful curve of ribs, the squishiness of Henry’s belly. Once he settled his hands on the points of Henry’s hips, Victor pulled away and sought content from a different source.

           Henry’s beautiful eyes, wide as twin moons, brilliant with entwined lust and love. Bright, bold, sparkling amber. Victor kissed him quickly on the nose and laughed when Henry went cross eyed. 

           “I love you so much.” Victor swore his face would split with the strength of his smile. “I’ve loved you since before I knew what love was.” He paused, not even slightly embarrassed to find himself panting as another sliding of their bodies sent waves of heat cascading through his core. “Also you are, like, so fucking hot.”

           Henry returned his smile with delight and kissed him hard enough to push Victor back. Though his hands were slightly fumbling, the sensation of soft palms on his skin was enough to drive Victor mad. 

           He pulled away and kept his eyes locked on Henry’s as he brushed his fingers over Henry’s cock, eliciting a low throated moan from the man. Under Victor’s hand, Henry’s penis was ramrod straight and hard, almost as much as his own. 

           A touch of anxiety entered the conversation as Victor tried to determine the best way to do this. He’d only ever had sex of this nature in a doggy style position before, which was, of course, completely unacceptable. If he wanted this to work, he needed to see Henry’s eyes. And Victor really wanted this to work.

           With the utmost care, Victor dragged his hands up along the length of Henry’s hips to his ass. With very little prompting, Henry popped his hips up and off the bed, allowing Victor to sink between his legs once more. While he searched for a pillow with one hand, Victor lavished kissed along the tender insides of Henry’s thighs. He lightly teased the top of Henry’s cock with his teeth, which in turn caused Henry to release the most pleasurable gasp imaginable. As Henry’s hips thrust up on instinct, Victor took the opportunity to place the pillow beneath him.

           The combination of Henry’s moans and a lack of touch were pushing Victor to an edge, as the twisting pressure in his dick caused him to groan in sympathy. Thankful for Henry’s foresight, Victor snagged lube off the side table and lathered some onto his fingers. He knelt between Henry’s now elevated legs, taking in the image of his erect red cock, before glancing to his face. “You’ll tell me if anything hurts, right?” Victor asked worriedly.

           “Of course.” Henry’s bright amber eyes, though already hazy with bliss, sharpened for his assurance. “Please Victor, I want you so bad.” He begged.

           Victor released a shaky breath which became a smile and carefully inserted his index finger. 

           He was sure Henry must be overplaying his reactions for Victor’s benefit, loud breathy groans and calls of Victor’s name, as he brought his pace from an unsure pull to a pump but nevertheless, Victor found himself turned on by the performance. As he added another finger, eliciting a moan of ‘oh  _ Victor, _ ’ he found it impossible to keep his hands away from his own cock and began to thrust into his hand in time with his thrusts into Henry.

           As soon as he could, Victor crawled up and over Henry, half collapsing on top of him in his haste to kiss his lips. His heart sang with eagerness when Henry immediately deepened it, hands working their way into his hair and tugging on the roots. The entire situation was more of a desperate scrambling of hands and lips than anything sexy but Henry laughed when Victor broke away to kiss both his eyelids so he had to be doing something right.

           “This is still okay?” Victor asked as he scooted further down to properly line himself up with Henry’s ass.

           “It’s fantastic.” Henry assured him breathlessly. “You’re  _ fantastic _ .”

           Victor smiled. “You flatter me too much.”

           “I flatter you just enough.” Henry challenged, face broken in a beautiful, sex-addled grin, which only served to make Victor’s current situation more dire. Giving himself a few more fumbling strokes, the slimmest touch of which set him writhing, Victor gently pressed his head in.

           Both men gasped. 

           Victor moved forward, positioning himself directly over Henry. As he cautiously rocked his hips, Henry seemed to melt beneath him, eyes half-lidded and hazy while he stuttered Victor’s name on a loop, interrupted only with calls of ‘please’ and ‘yes.’ Victor, for his part, could barely maintain a rhythm as bolts of coursing electricity seemed to invade every corner of his frame, reducing him to a quivering mess of words and frantic kisses and friction. The hesitation in his movements were quickly abandoned in favor of listening to Henry dissolve beneath his hands, the symphony of success audible to the ears and not a hint of pain between them. Victor ran kisses along every strip of skin he came in contact with.

           As Henry moved to meet him, Victor gave one last push and spilled over, the mounting pressure within divulging to a flood. He moaned Henry’s name through the release as Henry’s own painted Victor’s stomach white.

           It was a long moment before they were willing to break from the holds of their post-organsmic bliss but eventually the hard pants loosened to soft kisses. Victor pulled out and lay beside Henry.

           “I should get us cleaned up.” He whispered while Henry lazily sucked on the tender part of his neck.

           “Bedside table.” Henry answered and, lo and behold, there was a washcloth and glass of water waiting at the ready.

           Victor snorted in surprise. “God, you’re such a nerd. How did I fall for such a nerd?”

           “Because you, my love, are the ultimate nerd.” Henry shot back playfully.

           “Uh, nope. That title is only awarded to people who spend nine hours a day reading poetry.” Victor snagged the washcloth from the table and began to clean Henry. “I’m a cool kid.”

           Henry laughed and the sound was infectious. “Say that again with a straight face and I might believe you.” He teased.

           There was a pause in which Henry’s expression took on a pale sheen of worry. “That was okay?” He asked. “Like-”

           Victor cut him off with a hasty kiss, throwing his arms over Henry’s shoulders. When they pulled apart, he leaned his forehead against Henry’s, drinking in the sight of his clever eyes and strong cheekbones and sweet smile, so familiar and yet so new. “It was perfect.” Victor breathed. “I’ve never been happier.”

           Henry’s concern melted into delight and Victor kissed him harder, deeper, more. It didn’t matter that they had the rest of their lives be so, Victor wanted Henry close to him now. He wanted to lie together and be one in both body and mind, one force, for as long as they possibly could. 

           So they did.

 

* * *

           Jascha, Ernest, and William had been playing Monopoly at the dining room table. Alphonse, after dinner, had driven his parents downtown so that they could sign some documents at his office and spend the night back in their own apartment to unpack and settle back into regular life. This ended up being a good thing. At nearly exactly 7:30, Jascha became aware that he could hear a bed creaking above them. And moaning. At 7:35 he became aware that not only Ernest but William could hear it too. Ernest stifled a laugh behind his hand as Jascha looked at him. 

           “What’s going on?” William asked. As Ernest remained unable to talk due to laughter and Jascha was silent from second-hand embarrassment, William’s face cracked into a wicked grin. “Oh. Oh. I know what’s going on!” William said with all the pride of a twelve-year-old who watched his first PG-13 movie within the last three months. “Are they having sex?” William whispered, even though only the three of them were downstairs. Ernest buried his face in his hands as he laughed. Jascha squirmed in his seat. 

           “No…” Jascha said, very transparently lying. Ernest looked at him with amused agony as either Henry or Victor let out a particularly loud moan. William giggled. 

           “I know it’s sex,” William grinned. “They’re loud.” 

           “Why don’t we go play the piano?” Jascha said desperately. Ernest nodded, trying to catch his breath. They were still going at it upstairs. Jascha seriously hoped he and Ernest were more discrete. 

           Walking past the stairs was bad. The dining room was fairly well sheltered, but the stairs were out in the open and Victor’s room was nearly directly above them. It was a risk. The piano could probably mask the sound, and the last thing Jascha wanted to have to do was answer the inevitable questions William might have if he was allowed to keep overhearing what was happening upstairs. Ernest looked like he might have a stroke from embarrassment and laughter.

           “Look, here’s the Beethoven my mom was working on,” Jascha said earnestly, dragging William away from the stairs and into the piano room by his hand. So close to the steps, they could make out what was being said, and that was nearly theatrically too much to bear. Jascha abandoned Ernest to cry from laughter on the music room couch as he sat William down beside him at the piano. Jascha taught William the true meaning of forte as he had to mask Henry saying ‘Victor yes,’ at a volume loud enough to reach them even in the room. 

           “I’m going to die,” Ernest wheezed. “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened.” 

           “Shh,” Jascha hissed as he kept playing at full volume even though the score said pianissimo. William giggled beside him. 

           “Should we tell them we heard?” William asked. 

           “No,” Jascha said at the exact instant Ernest said ‘yes.’ There was a final cry from upstairs which Jascha recognized as probably being an orgasm, so he relaxed. Maybe now they’d shut up. He desperately hoped he and Ernest were never so loud. 

           “How does it work?” William giggled. 

           “You press the keys and the pedals and sound comes out,” Jascha said, staring pointedly at the piano. 

           “No,” William laughed. “Sex. I know girls have a, uh,” William just giggled instead of saying the word ‘vagina.’ Honestly, Jascha couldn’t blame him. “But how does it work with boys?” 

           “Do you like boys?” Jascha asked, still focusing on the piece. Ernest was incapacitated behind him, so he was on his own. 

           “I don’t think so,” William said lightly. 

           “Then you don’t have to worry about it,” Jascha said awkwardly. Like hell he was going to explain anal sex to a kid. He’d be hard-pressed to explain it to an adult. 

           “Do you and Ernest have sex?” William asked easily. Jascha hit a wrong chord in surprise. Ernest stopped laughing. He looked over his shoulder, desperate for Ernest to pick up the slack and save him. 

           “Uh…” Ernest flushed pink, though it was impossible to tell whether it was from laughter or the question. Both, probably. He sighed. “Yeah.” Ernest finally said. Jascha found he couldn’t meet William’s inquisitive eyes. 

           “Okay,” William said brightly. “Is it fun?” Jascha buried his face in his hands. 

           “Yeah,” Ernest said with an appropriate level of discomfort. “But it’s for adults.” 

           “Like alcohol,” William said. Jascha felt Ernest’s hands on his shoulders, but he didn’t uncover his face. The shame was too intense. 

           “Yeah, bud,” Ernest said lightly. “You can try it when you’re older.” 

           “Are you okay?” William asked, poking Jascha’s arm. 

           “No,” Jascha said. “I’m dying.” Ernest kissed the top of his head. 

           “He’s fine,” Ernest reassured, resting his chin on top of Jascha’s head. Jascha took a deep breath and unburied his face. William looked fine. Curious, but fine. And upstairs was finally quiet. 

           “Are they done?” William asked. 

           “Maybe,” Ernest shrugged. Jascha really hoped they’d worn themselves out. Certainly sounded exhausting. 

           “I need to practice for the concert,” Jascha announced, standing and walking over to Kroshka’s case. She was perfect. She never subjected him to uncomfortable conversation about sex. And the Vitali was loud enough that he could probably cover for Henry if they ended up not being done. William curled up on the couch with Ernest as he played. He took tentative comfort in the fact that he was no longer asking terrible questions. 

           He got through about an  hour of practice without interruptions from either William or the lovers upstairs. A miracle, truly. The only reason he stopped playing was that his hands started to hurt. They were probably safe. If they went this long being quiet, it probably meant they were done for the night. 

           “Want to finish our game?” William asked as he put Kroshka away.

           “You just want to finish it because you were winning,” Ernest said affectionately. 

           “Yes!” William beamed. “I want to build more houses.”  

           “You’re a nightmarish landlord,” Jascha smiled as they headed back to the dining room. Still no sounds from upstairs. Thank god. 

           “Remember, bed by ten,” Ernest said in a weak attempt at strictness. 

           “Yeah, yeah,” William said as they settled back at the table. “I want to buy Boardwalk.” 

 

           Ten came and went and William was comfortably settled back upstairs. For all his energy, he had a very automatic shut down time and promptly became exhausted at 9:55. Ernest tucked him in despite his protest that he was too old for it. 

           In the meantime, Ernest wanted to watch a movie. Jascha stared down the options. Alphonse had a surprisingly wide collection of films, some of which seemed profoundly out of his taste.  _ The Red Violin _ made sense,  _ Suspiria _ less so. Ernest gave him utterly no specifications, so Jascha grabbed  _ Billy Elliot _ . Feel good movies about ballet were always nice. 

           “What are we watching?” Ernest said as he flopped across his lap on the couch. Jascha kissed his forehead. 

           “I think we should watch Billy Elliot,” Jascha said. 

           “Not the violin one?” Ernest smiled up at him. “I thought for sure you’d want that one.”

           “My mom said it was scary,” Jascha shrugged. “We can watch it if you want.” 

           “We should,” Ernest grinned. 

           “It might be scary,” Jascha warned. “You don’t like scary things.” 

           “How scary can a movie for violin nerds be?” Ernest said lightly. “Let’s do it.” He got up and put the tape into the TV. 

           They made it through the first third of the film undistracted. Ernest buried his face in his shoulder after the first bloody scene, which was early on. But that didn’t stop them from watching it. No, they stopped when they heard footsteps on the stairs. 

           “Go to bed, Will!” Ernest called, pausing the movie quickly before something else scary could happen. To their surprise and horror, Henry appeared in the room. “Henry,” Ernest said, stifling himself from giggling. He did so badly. 

           “Hey,” Henry said. Jascha observed that his hair was on-end and he had a highly visible hickey on his neck. There was a tense pause. “So...What are you watching?” Henry asked. 

           “Red Violin,” Jascha said quickly, desperate to prevent Ernest from saying anything about what they heard. 

           “We were about to watch violin sex, I think,” Ernest said. Jascha didn’t need to look at him to know he was smirking. “Speaking of--”

           “Nope,” Jascha said, literally covering Ernest’s mouth with his hand. He cringed as Ernest licked his palm. 

           “You okay?” Henry asked, giving them both an odd look. 

           “Yup. Wait, no--” Jascha struggled to maintain his hold on Ernest as he wriggled free. 

           “So,” Ernest said brightly. “How was your evening?” 

           “It was good,” Henry said carefully. Jascha sighed and resigned himself to letting Ernest do whatever he was going to do. 

           “Just good?” Ernest asked. Jascha draped a hand over his eyes so he at least didn’t have to watch this. 

           “I...don’t know what you mean,” Henry said awkwardly. 

           “C’mon,” Ernest baited, sounding very much like a frat guy. “You  _ know _ .” 

           “I…” Henry lost his words. “How much did you hear?” He finally asked. 

           Ernest giggled. “Well, Jascha decided he needed to drown you two out with the piano, but we did happen to catch some loud creaking and some porno-ready ‘Yes, Victor’ moans.” 

           “Ernest, we’re getting a divorce,” Jascha groaned, miserable with second-hand embarrassment. “Stop making me relive this.” 

           “You have to marry me first before you can divorce me,” Ernest shot back lightly. “And, like, good luck with that. The supreme court still hates us.”

           “You...couldn’t really hear all that, right?” Henry said miserably. 

           “Henry, my man,” Ernest said affectionately. “You and Victor are about as subtle as the frat guys on a Friday after six drinks.” 

           “William asked me how sex worked.” Jascha added. If he had to suffer through it, Henry might as well also. 

           “Was this your first time?” Ernest asked. Jascha uncovered his eyes and saw that Henry was tomato-red. 

           “Uh, yeah,” Henry admitted. “Have you two...you know.” 

           “Yeah, dude,” Ernest laughed. “We started messing around with real sex maybe two or three weeks ago.” 

           “Ernest!” Jascha blushed. “You can’t just say things like that. What if-”

           “William already knows we have sex,” Ernest shrugged. “What’s there to lose?” 

           “My ability to be seen in public,” Jascha sighed. There was another pause. 

           “Which, uh. Position were you in?” Ernest asked, suddenly a bit shy. He spoke about sex as if it were a soccer game. 

           “Bottom,” Henry said quietly. Jascha held his breath, already preparing for Ernest to discuss their sex life in more detail than he wanted. 

           “Nice,” Ernest nodded. “That one’s fun.” 

           “You’ve done it?” Henry asked. Jascha curled miserably into a ball. 

           “Yep,” Ernest said brightly. “I think I prefer it, honestly.” 

           “Really?” Jascha uncurled slightly, gawking at Ernest. He gave him a smile. 

           “Yeah,” Ernest said, brushing a lock of hair out of his face. His smile turned into a smirk. “You’re great at topping.” 

           “Shh!” Jascha felt his cheeks get hot as he got flustered. Ernest bent over him and kissed him apologetically on the lips. 

           “Sorry, babe. I lived in a frat for four years. Talking about sex is easy,” he smiled. He looked back to Henry. “Did you like it? It didn’t hurt?” 

           “It was good. Great,” Henry smiled. “It’s was long overdue.” 

           “Part of me wants details,” Ernest said wistfully. “...The other part of me desperately never wants to imagine Victor being sexually active.” 

           “I don’t want details. We can watch the violin movie instead,” Jascha offered. 

           “I’ll ask you more about it when Jascha isn’t around,” Ernest smiled at Henry. Ernest curled around him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “He’s delicate.” Jascha blushed. 

           “I am not,” Jascha protested weakly. 

           “You’re right,” Ernest smirked. “Those leather pants really bring out your--” Jascha cut him off with a kiss, which was rapidly replaced by his hand. 

           “Leather pants?” Henry laughed. 

           “Please,” Jascha pleaded. “Please don’t make me talk about this.” He cringed as Ernest licked his palm again, drawing his hand away. “Why do you keep licking me?” He asked as he wiped his hand on his jeans.

           “You always seem to forget that I’m a younger sibling,” Ernest smiled. 

           “I don’t have siblings,” Jascha frowned. “And I never licked my older cousins.” 

           “Do you want to watch the movie with us?” Ernest asked Henry warmly. Henry shook his head but he was smiling. 

           “I just came down for a snack. I want to get back to Victor,” Henry said affectionately. “I’ll...make sure we don’t make any noise or wake William.” 

           “Cool,” Ernest settled back against him. “Have fun. Be safe.” 

           “We will,” Henry grinned as he left. 

           “Violin sex scene time?” Ernest asked once they were alone. 

           “I’m going to hate this,” Jascha sighed. “But yeah. Sure.” He unpaused the movie. Sure enough, it was awful. Truly traumatic. 

           “Is this what you fantasize about?” Ernest asked quietly as the scene went on. 

           “Nope,” Jascha said easily. He buried his face in Ernest’s neck. “I fantasize about your thighs and the way you smell right after you shower,” he whispered. 

           “Really?” Ernest laughed softly. 

           “And the faces you make,” Jascha added with a light kiss. Ernest reached for the remote and shut off the TV. Jascha frowned as he got up. “Where are you going?” He asked. 

           “I’m going to go shower,” Ernest smiled, offering Jascha his hand. “And you’re coming with me.”

           Jascha was more than happy for the excuse to stop watching cringey violin sex. 

  
  



	61. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry buys flowers. Victor has twizzlers. Jascha bows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read this in its entirety, those who have commented/kudos'd, and otherwise supported us! We never really anticipated how huge this project would be, and with bittersweet joy we draw it to its conclusion.

         It was amazing how the days kept moving. They didn’t race and pitch ahead anymore like they did with times of crisis and they stopped dragging themselves through blood and gore. Now there were just days that passed as easily as walking with Victor through a garden.

        Henry didn’t ever think he would be able to lose track of time, but now all he knew was that it was sometime in the mid-afternoon and that he and Victor were driving to get Jascha flowers. Reddish light drifted through the haze of snow as they winded there way through wooded backroads. Victor told him the barren trees held signs of owls and marmots, but they fled to their hiding places once the sun rose.

         So Henry and Victor were alone, at least for a little bit. In an hour or so, there would be suits and cocktails and anxiety and music. For now, though, they were alone and the sweet silence was only broken by the whirring of the wind and Victor’s soft commentary on the finer points of frog anatomy.

        “Did you know wood frogs can freeze themselves about 60% during the winter? And then they just thaw and go on their merry fucking way. Why do frogs get all the cool superpowers and we are just left with these husks of flesh.” At a stoplight, Henry got a quick glance of Victor leaning on his elbow. The orange light of the afternoon brought out the natural flush in his cheeks and ears

        “How do they do it?” Henry asked dreamily. “I would like to freeze myself solid during the winter. It’s cold.”

        “First off, they’re not just a solid hunk of frog ice. Only 60%. And they make a ton more glucose. It’s like the potato and salt water experiment. People freeze to death because they’re cells dehydrate, but if you add glucose to the frog, they don’t die.”

        “Can you teach me how to make more glucose? I wish to induce a state of froggy sleep,” Henry laughed as he pulled into a parking space near the florist. He didn’t turn the car off quite yet because it was indeed cold and he wasn’t prepared.

        Victor gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Nope, sorry love. I’ve sworn off my mad scientist ways and am now devoted to the betterment of humanity.” He cracked a roguish grin. “But you are pretty cute when you’re sleeping. It would just be difficult to cuddle you.”

        “I do like to be cuddled,” Henry murmured as he wrapped his new scarf around his nose and mouth.

        The florist’s was warm and bright and full of colors. For some reason, it never occurred to Henry that he could get flowers when they didn’t naturally bloom. Maybe if he did, he would have been decking their room in coxcomb and azaleas.

        “Uh, hi,” Victor said, stepping up to Henry’s side. “We’re here to pick up an order.”

        “Sounds great,” a perky young woman said. “Is the last name...Franken...stern?” She asked, cringing.

        “Eh. At least you’re apologetic about it,” Victor huffed lightly.

        “Frankenstein, but yeah. Thank you so much!” Henry smiled and the florist smiled back.

        “I’m the only one in right now, so it’ll take me a couple minutes. Feel free to, like, make yourselves at home,” she giggled under her breath as she disappeared into the back.

        Once they were assuredly alone, Victor held Henry’s hand. “This is like your dream come true, isn’t it.”

        “Only a little bit,” Henry pulled Victor over to a vase full of picture perfect camellia flowers. “Look, they’re you,” he nuzzled into his lover’s shoulder.

        “Excuse me?” Victor laughed. “They could never hold a candle to my elegance and charm.”

        “No, no, no,” Warmth rose in Henry’s cheeks. “Red camellia for unpretending excellence. You’re a fire in my heart. White for perfected loveliness. And pink.” Henry delicately ran a finger along its outermost petal. “I’m longing for you.”

        There was a long, soft silence that filled the entire shop. Then, Victor burst into laughter. “You’re a nerd. Did you know that? Have I ever told you?”

        “Hey!” Henry snuggled into Victor’s hug. “You chose me!”

        “I believe  _ you _  chose me,” he giggled. “Lured me in while I was out with my dad in the woods. Fairy prince. I even gave you my name.”

        Henry was crouching so Victor could press his nose into his hair. “And it was the best decision of my long, beautiful life. And the only reason we resorted to that was because the blood ritual didn’t work. I could just as easily be a Scythian vampire.”

        “I thought you were a fairy long before the blood ritual. It’s just you…” Victor waved his hands vaguely around Henry’s head.

        “I what?” He cocked his head and looked into Victor’s dark eyes.

        “There! You’re doing it right now! You glow!”

        Henry pulled Victor into another hug and rested his cheek against his hair. “Now who’s a nerd?” He whispered fondly.

        This was a new feeling, something Henry had never felt before. He gently ran his thumb over Victor’s knuckles. They were in public and Victor could do this. He knew the moment the florist came back, all of their fluffy PDA would have to stop, but it was nice in the meantime.

        Victor tapped Henry’s thigh when the florist came back with the flowers. It took the three of them to carry the bouquets to the car. Alphonse was, of course, nice enough to get flowers for the other performers in the masterclass.

        “What do you think the state of the house will be when we get back?” Victor asked.

        “That depends,” Henry pondered. “Are Kassia and Lukas back yet? Is Jascha alive?”

        “No clue,” Victor shrugged. “Hopefully he took up Ernest’s offer of the melatonin last night.”

        “You know he didn’t,” Henry laughed. “That’s a chemical and chemicals are going to cause nuclear fallout.”

        Victor groaned against the window. “I  told  him. It’s a naturally occurring chemical in the brain. It’s  fine .”

        “Maybe he’ll just work out all his nerves before the class.” Henry suggested. They pulled up to a stoplight and made eye contact before bursting out in laughter.

        “That is the biggest lie I’ve heard, darling.” Victor was absolutely loosing it.

        Sure enough, as soon as they walked through and encountered complete chaos. William filled them in as he struggled to carry a bunch of flowers into the kitchen. The situation was exactly as dire as Henry predicted.

        “And there will be people looking at me!” Jascha cried as Ernest tried to soothe him on the couch. Alphonse stood at the line between the kitchen and the livingroom looking completely and totally lost.

        “They’ll be in the audience. You won’t be able to see them. Just imagine you’re playing for us,” Ernest said as he pet Jascha’s shoulder. He waved at Henry, Victor, and William without looking at them.

        “I’m excited to hear you play,” Henry said calmly as he sat on the arm of the couch. “Remind me what piece again?”

        “Vitali,” Jascha gasped. “The Vitali Chaconne.”

        “Cool, cool,” he hummed. “Didn’t Jascha Heifetz play it for his debut at Queens Hall?”

        “Yup,” their Jascha’s voice pitched about an octave higher.

        “Okay,” Henry backtracked, clearly that was not the right thing to bring up. “What can you tell me about it?” Ernest scooched closer to Jascha so Henry and Victor could join him on the couch.

        “It’s a chaconne.”

        “Jascha, I have no idea what that is. Can you explain it to me very slowly?” Henry offered. Victor leaned softly on his shoulder. Jascha didn’t look like he was about to fray into a million little pieces, so something was working, it just wasn’t working enough.

        “Uh, a chaconne is a dance that was popular in the eighteenth century. It’s usually in a slow triple time and it’s a theme and variations over a ground base. Uh, there aren’t breaks between the variations, I think,” Jascha shook his head, still firmly attached to Ernest’s arm. “I think I’m going to die,” he muttered. “I’m going to faint.”

        “No you won’t,” Victor tried to be helpful. “It would have a lot to do with your blood pressure and you’re sitting down with Ernest, so it’s all good.” He flashed a small smile. Henry let him self sink a little deeper into his lover’s arms.

        “I cannot feel my hands,” Jascha declared.

        “What?” Ernest and Victor said in unison.

        “No, no. This always happens.” He blushed at having made them worried. “They just don’t feel like they’re mine. It’s normal, I swear.”

        “You’re hands are definitely yours,” Ernest said into his hair. “We put them back ourselves. We know.”

        Henry let himself settle into the flurry of sound that was Ernest calming Jascha, Alphonse talking to William, and Victor murmuring incoherently into his shoulder. He closed his eyes and let him think of nothing but his family and their future. He could see a nice house with a sprawling yard by the woods. There was enough room for their kids and a dog and Henry’s books and Victor’s science.

        He let his mind linger there for a moment. Children with Victor. It really would be everything he ever wanted. They could play on Ernest’s sports teams or watch Jascha play his concerts and their lives could be so irrevocably good. Never normal, but good was better. Good was with Victor.

        “What are you thinking about?” Victor kissed Henry’s cheek.

        “Children. Our children,” Henry whispered so no one else could hear him.

        “Adelaide and Nathaniel will be the luckiest kids in the world to have you as their father,” he hummed and snuggled closer.

        “Adelaide and Nathaniel?” Henry liked it. He loved them a lot and they weren’t even real yet. Someday.

        “It’s not a Frankenstein house unless we all sound like the ghosts of Victorian children,” Victor laughed. “Don’t worry, you can name the dog something ridiculous.”

        “I love you. I love that I get to spend the rest of my life with you,” Henry closed his eyes and held his lover’s hand.

        Someday it would be his husband’s hand. Henry felt his chest grow tight with love. It pulled and twisted something deep within his heart and lungs. He settled himself into the crook of his lover’s arm. He continued in his loving daydreams as he gently kissed the back of Victor’s hand.

        Someday they could read their kids bedtime stories by the fire. Someday, they would be able to take their dog on walks through the forest. Someday, they would be married. And someday Henry wouldn’t have to dream anymore.

 

* * *

  

        “Who are all these people?” Victor wondered aloud as the family forced their way through the concert hall’s overcrowded entrance. “Don’t you all have lives?” He said loudly.

        “Victor.” Henry chided lightly.

        “I’m just saying. Pretty weird place to be on a Friday.” Victor commented. He hung close to Henry’s shoulder as the crowd stopped, apparently content to linger and chat in the main lobby. “Oh, I’m going to die.” Victor muttered.

        “You’re not going to die, Victor, stop being a baby.” William pitched in. He was in the process of fiddling with his tie yet again so Victor slapped his hands away and bent to fix it. He thought he did a decent job though his dad’s grimace suggested otherwise. Victor tried again and glanced over. His dad nodded. Success.

        “There.” Victor pulled away and tugged the shoulders of William’s suit back into place. “Now, don’t touch anything.”

        “Or what?” William asked just to be irritating.

        “Or I’ll tickle you during Jascha’s solo.”

        “That’s not going to work,” Liz’s lazy voice floated over the crowd, ushering in her appearance, draped in an elegant red dress and closely pursued by Justine. She waltzed over to the group and leaned on Henry’s other shoulder, smirking deviously at Victor. “William’s not ticklish. You, on the other hand…”

        Victor stepped back and wrapped his arms around his middle protectively. “Begone, foul beast,” he hissed while attempting to hide behind Justine.

        Liz’s smile only grew wider and, to his supreme horror, William responded to the revelation of Victor’s Achilles’ heel with supreme interest. Even Henry, who already knew about the weakness, appeared to eye Victor.

Victor scooted back into Justine’s side. “I’m sitting with you during the show.” He whispered.

        “And what guarantee do you have that I won’t be the one to strike?” Justine returned in utter deadpan.

        “Actually,” Ernest interrupted as he appeared with Dr. Simonis in tow, “none of you are going to do anything to interrupt Jascha’s concert so you can just forget about torturing Victor.”

        “Ha!” Victor yelled triumphantly.

        “Until after the show.” Ernest added.

        Victor threw him a glare. “You motherf-”

        “ _ Language _ , Victor.” His father said emphatically. His eyes drifted to Ernest and Dr. Simonis. “Is everything going okay?” He asked in concern.

        “Yes,” Ernest said at the exact moment Dr. Simonis said “No.”

        There was an awkward pause and exchange of meaningful looks.

        “It’ll be fine.” Ernest amended while he attempted to loosen his collar.

        “Anything we can do?” Justine asked but Ernest simply shook his head.

        “No, I, uh...no need to crowd Jascha. Or overwhelm him. Not that I think you all are overwhelming but-”

        “Wow, I can’t believe Ernest thinks we all suck.” Victor drawled. He snuck a twizzler out of his pocket.

        Ernest blinked at him, first in confusion, then aghast. “You brought candy to the concert?”

        “Uh, yeah.” Victor took a bite of the twizzler and attempted to discreetly hand one to Henry, who refused. “If I’m going to have to sit through three hours of people sawing away on horse hair while crying about Beethoven or whatever, I at least want in-house dining.”

        Ernest ran a hand down his face. “Victor, this isn’t a movie theater, you can’t just stuff food down your pants to snack on mid-performance.”

        “So you don’t want some?” Victor asked, dangling a twizzler in front of Ernest’s nose.

        Ernest went cross-eyed as he attempted to keep the candy in his field of vision. He started to reach for the twizzler then glanced back to Jascha’s dad, who looked at him expectantly. “Later.” He mouthed.

        Victor smiled in satisfaction as he handed the candy to Liz.

        “We should be getting back to Jascha.” Dr. Simonis placed a hand on Ernest’s shoulders. “The house will be opening soon.”

        “Shoot, right.” Ernest smiled at the group as he backed up. “Remember we have reserved seating in the front, okay? We’ll join you in, like, twenty minutes.”

        As Ernest and Dr. Simonis departed once more, the group fell into various conversations, with his dad inquiring into Justine’s degree progress and Liz proudly displaying the thigh holster she had hidden just barely under her dress to an impressed William. Victor returned to Henry’s side.

        “So, Jascha’s reintroduction to the world.” Victor said slowly.

        “It’s exciting, isn’t it?” Henry asked. Dressed in his new tweed suit and his thick glasses, he looked the very image of a Hollywood English professor. The types that, like, climbed on their desks in the middle of class and gave impassioned speeches to their students about how love and poetry control the entire world. In other words, Henry looked completely and utterly adorable.

        “It’s very exciting.” Victor admitted as he straightened the lapels on Henry’s coat for no other reason than to stand close to him. “Though, not entirely what I imagined.”

        “Oh?” Henry asked curiously. “And what were you imagining?”

        Victor grimaced a bit. “To be honest, I was thinking Jascha’s first real public appearance would be when I accepted my Lasker Award for breakthroughs in human biology.”

        Henry placed his hands over Victor’s and smiled. Through the layers of fabric, Victor could clearly feel Henry’s heart beating strong and true as a drum. “This is much better, don’t you think?” Henry smiled.

        Victor returned the smile softly. “Yeah. Yeah, this is better.”

        Casting his gaze around the room and finding no sign of danger, Victor lifted himself onto his toes and gave Henry a quick peck on the lips. He grinned when Henry went a very agreeable shade of scarlet.

        “Victor.” Henry scolded yet he could tell that the other’s eyes were laughing.

        “What?” Victor said innocently. “We’re in a place of the arts, we’re allowed to be a little bit gay. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be, like, Mr. Bad Boy or something?” He nudged him playfully and pitched his voice into sing-song. “ _Leather jacket_. ”

        Henry rolled his eyes, still blushing. “Fine,” He sighed, “but if you’re going to do it, at least do it properly.”

        “Do it prop-” Victor asked before he was cut off by a long, deeper kiss. Still not nearly as much as he would have liked but beyond daring for a public place. Victor touched his lips. “You horn dog.” He teased.

        “Place of the arts, my love.” Henry answered with a roguish grin.

        “Hey,” Liz called over, “are you two done being non-discrete? The house just opened.”

        They took their seats along a line which had been marked off  _Frankenstein/Simonis_.  By previous agreement, Victor and Henry were tragically separated so that Henry could quote ‘actually enjoy the show without having to entertain Victor every three seconds.’ As if he’d ever distracted him before.

        As the last of the crowd trickled into the looming symphony hall and the lights began to dim, Dr. and Mrs. Simonis appeared with Ernest not half a minute after them.

        “Took you long enough.” Victor commented airily as Ernest (reluctantly) took the last available seat next to him. “What, was Jascha holding you captive back there?”

        “Something like that.” Ernest ran a hand through his hair. “No, he’s all set. We’re good to go.”

        “Awesome. And his hands?”

        “Perfect.” Ernest said, with just a tinge of patented Frankenstein pride.

        “Oh, I’m sure.” Victor couldn’t help but lewdly add. He stifled a laugh as Ernest thumped him on the shoulder.

        “Quit it.” Ernest commanded. He looked at Victor oddly for a beat before his face broke into a mischievous smile. “Or I’ll tell Dad all about you and Henry’s little exploit the other day.”

        Victor felt the blood drain out of his face and down through his dress shoes. “You heard-” He started to ask before the lights dimmed completely and he was forced to abandon the inquisition.

        As the curtains drew back on a stage of standing performers, Victor silently passed Ernest a twizzler.

 

* * *

  

        Jascha was last on the list of performers. He was unused to these sorts of classes being so public and so full, but then again, it was being led by one of the world’s leading instructors. As much as he hated the idea of being first, or being in the middle, being last was the worst. It meant that whatever he did, it would be the impression of the night. And, unfortunately, since he turned sixteen he was no longer cute enough to convince the stage manager to let his mother stay with him in the wings. He did, however, have other performers who recognized him, offering him awkward glances and confused smiles.

        “Excuse me,” a young woman said. “I saw your name on the program. Are you really Jascha Simonis?” She asked. Jascha felt his heart cease to pump blood willingly.

        “Maybe,” Jascha said too quickly. She looked concerned. “Yeah. Sorry. Nerves.” She looked suddenly unbelievably curious and apologetic. He had an idea of what question she wanted answered. “Long story. But yes, I’m alive.”

        She smiled at him again, less curious but no less apologetic. She must have been up next, since she disappeared after the applause for the first performer died down. He took a breath. Checked to make sure both his hands still remembered how to move. Pressed his lips against Kroshka’s scroll for comfort.

        He leapt as he felt something tug at the dovetail of his suit. He saw no one behind him until he looked down, meeting the eyes of a similarly-startled six year old. “Hello,” the kid said shyly. “Are you Jascha?”

        Jascha took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said. The kid smiled widely, only to be scooped up by his mother, who from the looks of her dress going to be performing later.

        “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. She paused as she met his eyes. “Oh. Oh my god.”

        “Mom, look! He’s playing again,” the kid grinned. Jascha bounced on his toes.

        “I…” She looked him up and down, puzzled but not hostile. She gave him a smile. “You were a counselor at my son’s music camp,” she explained. Jascha smiled. He’d forgotten that he used to work at summer music programs back in high school and early in college.

        “Why were you gone for so long?” The kid asked brightly, if slightly accusatory. “You were supposed to play at my school!”

        “Right,” Jascha nodded. Right. He was supposed to have gone home and played some concerts for kids at his old elementary school back in the fall. “I got hurt and I needed to take a break,” Jascha apologized. “Sorry.”

        “I’m glad you’re back,” the woman said, placing her son back on the ground. She looked like she knew he was understating the accident, but she also looked like she bought it. “I’m up next and I need to drop him off with his other parent,” she smiled. “Say bye,” she instructed her son. He looked up at Jascha and waved.

        “Bye!” He said with a grin. Jascha finally breathed again once they were gone. He’d forgotten how small the music world actually was. Especially at the higher levels.

        Jascha paced as he waited for the penultimate performance to start. If he kept moving it would be harder for his blood pressure to suddenly decide to quit, and the goal was to be conscious. He knew the Vitali. He loved the Vitali. It was the piece he’d given the most hours of his life to other than the etudes, and he knew that even without his own hands he’d known how to play it. He looked at his hands, wrapped firmly around Kroshka as if she might keep him safe. She would. She’d been alive for so much longer than any human being, and she was still alive, brought back to life by his father twice now and by other people who knows how many times before him. All it took was love and dedication.

        He felt his pulse spike as the applause for the second to last performer started. It was a class, which meant there would be feedback and repetition. He had maybe fifteen minutes to get his nerves under control. For people at this level, it might run longer. Once you hit a certain level of technical proficiency all that really needed work was philosophical and artistic critiques, which meant the audience got to sit and what Chicago’s best get torn to pieces by the world’s best in ways they probably wouldn’t even be able to understand or hear.

        His father had reached Juilliard, and he would be going back in a few weeks. He’d made the mistake of checking his email and had to close it out when he saw the 200+ unread messages from the school and evidently every stand partner, quartet member, and friend he’d ever had at school. To be fair, about half of the emails were exclusively from Cleo. Alphonse had discretely made the revocation of his death certificate public, and while that changed his life very little in Chicago it was a big deal at the Juilliard press. Evidently his return would be a rather large deal in the school’s history.

        He was more or less shoved into the on-deck wing of the stage by the manager, forcing his legs to move nearer to the limelight he dreaded so much. Would he actually remember the piece? His hands were suspiciously numb. Would they work? What if he wasn’t actually himself, and Victor had been right back in the dark hours of his worst meltdown?

        “I’m Jascha Simonis,” Jascha whispered to himself under his breath. “I am Jascha, and I am alive,” he repeated, quiet enough that no one could hear him. The applause for the performer before him died down, and the manager nudged him on stage. “I am Jascha Simonis,” he said one last time for good measure, even if he didn’t feel it.

        As always, he was shocked when he couldn’t see the audience. All his worries were for nothing. For all he knew, Ernest and his parents were the only ones out there. He smiled shyly at the internationally best-rated violinist that was teaching the class, though he immediately blanked on her name and whether or not he’d met her before. Chances were high that he had, since she was one of his mother’s classmates. She gave him a subtle nod, and he had Kroshka under his chin before his brain could tell him that he was supposed to be paralyzed by fear. He fixed his back, adjusted his grip on the bow, and hit the first chord.

        As always when he played, he let himself become blind and deaf to the world outside of the piece he was playing. His fingers remembered where the notes were with accuracy down to the very pressure of his fingers against the strings. He remembered faintly the music shop; the frustration with the hands Victor chose. He remembered the pain and fear of getting his old ones back. Whatever difficulty the surgery had caused him in practice was lost in the performance: He might as well have never died at all for all the ease with which his body remembered the routine. His back was straight. The legs that weren’t his legs held strong, and the heart that wasn’t his heart pumped strong.

        But they were his now, weren’t they? Organ transplants, like Ernest said all those weeks ago. The blood in his veins was his, as were his hands and his mind. His cells were the ones that had healed and that caused everything to work again. The devotion to music was his, as was his love for Ernest and his family. He was himself, down to his phobia of being seen on stage. And he was glad for it. He was glad to be on stage again, to be seen for the first time in months. To have evidence that he hadn’t been forgotten, and that he was loved. He smiled as he finished the last chord with just as much strength and glory as he’d played the first. He beamed at the instructor as the audience applauded, basking for once in the sound rather than wanting to flee from it. The teacher was smiling, too, he saw as the crowd settled again. He could barely hear her over the beating of his heart, which  _ did _  belong to him; the breaths that filled  _ his _  lungs.

        Jascha Simonis was alive, and he was home.

 

* * *

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like our writing, we write other fics in the same three (or four) pov style. We currently have one up and posting for Hamlet on Thursdays and Sundays (Tender is the Night: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20444984/chapters/48507053) and we will have chapters of Dracula (Ode to a Nightingale) up on Fridays. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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